Parsley and parties

Growing up in Louisiana, I attended lots of parties. Not just formal affairs for Mardi Gras or Christmas but also neighborhood soirees and cocktail parties hosted by my parents' friends. I loved all these fetes, loved dressing up and seeing people, assessing the spreads and noshing on my favorite dishes. Perhaps it's fairly obvious that I still take great pleasure in parties and really love all their festive concomitants; I truly enjoy hosting, derive much joy in cooking for others, appreciate great food and drink, love setting a pretty table. Mom and I used to give the "refreshments," as I liked to call them, a full overview before committing to a first plate. Always -oddly?- I loved the inevitable parsley garnishes tucked around the tenderloin or salmon, nestled by the crudités or bowl of dip. Fortunately, few others seemed to give these bright green sprigs much thought and so neither noticed nor minded the girl swiping bouquets of them and then chewing with satisfaction.

The parsley was always your standard curly parsley, small parcels trimmed from the larger bunch, rather like a cauliflower broken down into florets for easier handling and eating. I didn't discover flat-leaf, or Italian, parsley until after college, when I became a cook of my own and the sort of one who cared deeply about herbal variations and the implications therein. Though I now use flat-leaf parsley almost exclusively, the curly remains unbeatable if you're looking to enjoy the simple satisfaction of noshing on an unadulterated green.

I started musing about my history with parsley when a friend recently asked if I'd post a "tutorial" about the various types of parsley and just what can be done with them. Perhaps this primer is more than she bargained for, but it's been an awfully nice trip down memory lane. For now, let's jump in to the question at hand.

Petroselinum crispum, otherwise known as parsley, originated in the central Mediterranean -southeast Europe and far west Asia- and remains an important herb in the culinary traditions of that area. Consider the role parsley plays in tabbouleh, for example, or in a bouquet garni. How many plates of risotto and pasta garnished with chopped parsley have you enjoyed? The always-pleasing gremolata is a parsley-centric accompaniment to many a dish, and parsley plays a weighty role in most versions of chimichurri (or salsa verde as the Italian iteration is known). It's a humble but significant herb, one that pretty much anyone with a pot, soil and sunshine can grow and enjoy.

Curly parsley is most commonly used as a garnish, hence my early experiences with it as just that. Its leaves are smaller than its flat-leaf brethren and some believe its taste is less pronounced. I myself think that the tongue's experience with such crisply ruffled leaves affects our ability to as clearly discern its taste. Flat-leaf parsley sometimes has thicker stems and can have a slightly woodier taste, as heftier trunks might suggest. I use flat-leaf more because it has a clean, clear flavor not entangled with any texture.

Parsley rarely offends; I mean seriously, when was the last time you thought the main problem with any dish was the parsley in it? Probably never. It's pretty and adds a lovely yet fairly muted fresh flavor to many things. As Harold McGee says, it's relatively "generic," really and can "therefore complement many foods."

The best way to store a fresh bunch of parsley is in a small cup of water on a windowsill, as if it's a bouquet of flowers. When I purchase some parse (my shorthand), I come home, untether it from its twistie binds, maybe (serious maybe because I tend to be lazy) trim any ends that look splayed or old or soft, fill a juice cup with water and stand the bunch up in it. I learned this trick from a cook I once knew and it really is foolproof- you'll get days from your parsley that you never knew it had!

This one is on my sill now. Parsley drinks water like a horse that's found an oasis in a desert, so you'll need to be vigilant about refilling its reservoir. Now that I really study this picture, I see that my guy is in need of a tall drink. Momentarily...

Parsley is good for you! It's full of folic acid, flavonoids, vitamins K/C/A and antioxidants. Unfortunately, the myth that parsley can remedy bad breath seems to have been proven false, but that doesn't stop me from trying to make Percy eat it as often as possible. It can't hurt!

Especially when someone else starts it for you, parsley is easy to grow provided you have a spot where the sun shines assertively and you're willing to water. Certain animals, such as the goldfinch and a few butterflies, really groove on parsley or its seeds, so that's cool too. And I have had great luck with parsley reseeding itself and acting as quite the perennial in my little garden.

Let me bring this to a close by providing a few ways to use parsley now.

Snip it over anything and everything as a garnish. Just look at part of my dinner tonight: pimentón-roasted potatoes and onions with parsley both before and after. 

Spaghetti alle vongole? LOVES a parsley garnish! NEEDS it! Tabbouleh! Parsley is critically important; Ina Garten's recipe calls for a full cup. What about my roasted sweet potatoes with hazelnut gremolata?

I find myself snipping away at my parsley bouquet all the time. Bet you will too!

The lovely inauthenticity of youthful memories

The kids' school offers some wonderful extracurricular activities; each day there are several options from which the kids can choose and then register, things like drama, rollerblading, Arabic, science. They run for just an hour after dismissal, and each term I let the boys pick one or two from those that strike their fancies. Jack opted for NASA science and chess last time around while Ol took a children's theater class. I heard rave reviews after every session and immediately shared the new choices when they were published last month. Somewhat to my surprise, both boys chose Spanish club (I'm so happy about this!), in part because they wanted to do something together (I'm so happy about this too!) and also they're both really engaged in the language this year. Then they each chose theater which runs on the same day but is divided by age such that they wouldn't be together. Ultimately, Jack's theater class was canceled because of low enrollment. In an attempt to assuage his disappointment, I said, "Buddy, I am happy to either pick you up early or to sign you up for the other option that day which is soccer."

Jack has never expressed the remotest interest in soccer. In fact, when he was almost three and Oliver was a newborn, I signed Jack up for tot soccer in order to get us all outside. He did not seem excited, but I thought he might enjoy kicking a ball with friends. My precious boy instead loitered, each week, in the field's back 40, identifying weeds and small flowers which he would repeatedly pick and bring to me on the sidelines. I remember clearly his glee one day: "Mom, Mom, it's hairy bittercress!!!" a weed which was, at that point, Tom's nemesis because it spread like wildfire and thus impeded his grass seed's maturation. If J's foot ever made contact with the soccer ball, I don't remember it and it must have been accidental.

Anyway, I suspected he'd say no about soccer this time around so I simply said, "The choice is yours; anything is fine with me! The only thought I wanted to share is that sometimes it's just really nice to know the basics of common games. Say you and a bunch of your friends were at the park together and someone started a pick-up game of soccer. If you knew how to play, you'd probably be glad. I can remember feeling happy to know how to play various games."

And to my surprise, he immediately said, "Sure, Mom, why not. I'll try soccer."

I always find little surprises like this marvelous. They remind me that even though I know my boys better than perhaps anyone else (knows them), they are dynamic beings whose interests and ideas are developing in tandem with, though often in less obvious or visual ways, their physical growth and capabilities. I have always thought of Jack as my son who would never be an athlete, and in all likelihood, sports will never be his main passion or direction in life. And that's OK. But it's also so worthwhile to remember and keep present that our little ones change, that what we used to attribute to, expect from and know about them may not be true next week or next year or ever again.

We, as parents, cannot grow complacent or assumptive regarding our child(ren)'s preferences; not only does that hold the possibility of pigeon-holing our kids inaccurately -ascribing to them interests or traits that are no longer correct- but it also runs the risk of keeping them from discovering external interests and elements of their own inner selves.

I contacted the afterschool coordinator who moved J into soccer, and yesterday I went to pick-up a bit early to see if I could catch a glimpse of him. There was my Jack, racing down the field happily. The group is co-ed which thrills me (second graders really tend to divide by gender unless you force it), and I saw him dribbling with a girl with whom he used to play detective; he gave her a Sherlock hat, pipe and magnifying glass three years ago for her birthday, one of the last co-ed parties he attended. As he jogged off the field, he gave me a high five and said, "That was awesome."

In the car on the way home, Oliver told us how "awesome" drama was, and Jack told him how "awesome" soccer was. He then said, "You know, I've always loved soccer."

People, please. I took that opportunity to lovingly relay the first and only experience Jack had with soccer, the tot class five years ago. He grinned and shrugged and said, "Well, I love it now." And I smiled and thought about how we change and perhaps he did love it that first time around, in the sense of what soccer was to him then: time outside in a field of flowers and weeds, time to pursue what was then one of his interests, time to indulge a simple pleasure. The loveliness of inauthentic memories* can still lead us to discover, or rediscover, something new to enjoy.

Food for thought on this beautiful spring day!

*Please rest assured that I am not saying all youthful memories are inauthentic, but some are and those are the ones I'm writing about here.

Ricotta, stewed prunes, Bluebells and kumquats, bath fail

Oh, spring, how do you energize me. This morning's gray drizzle and an epically funny bath fail have given way to a glorious day. I was finally able to plant my mint and marjoram and uncover my basil, fennel, Bluebells and other carefully lidded treasures. They are all aglow now, happily drying out and warming up in the sunshine. Nutmeg is playing with all the abandon a cat on a leash can muster; I do feel terribly for him. He races gleefully after bugs, feathers, anything that appears to scoot, and though he reaches some before the leash length gives out, at other times he's foiled in a dramatic, whiplash way. If I weren't so worried that he'd either never come home or be hit by a car, I'd let him roam free. But we have feral cats in the alley, maniac drivers on the extremely nearby busy roads, and I just adore him entirely too much to risk a feline sayonara.

After dropping the boys off, I went to the market to stock up on stuff for us and the plethora of catering gigs, big and small, in my near future. Since, I've made ricotta, stewed prunes (don't judge; these are amazing in all their orange- and cinnamon-scented glory! If that's not enough of a draw, Molly Wizenberg provided the recipe so obviously it's foolproof!) and am about to embark on candied kumquats. An enormous pile of three types of freshly washed and spun kale is drying on the counter, and the open doors and windows are letting springy vibes wash away the remaining inside cold of winter.

PS- while at the market, I was thrilled to see that this Friday is the annual One Day mango sale. You do not want to miss this, not least because Ataulfo, aka champagne, mangoes are THE best. Canners out there, you should most definitely go nuts. Mango jam, mango chutney, etc. Yee-haw! Non-canners, you should still get excited too: grill your mangoes, make mango/amaretto/vanilla ice cream sundaes, craft some mango salsa for fish, eat them plain, make mango honey mustard, cook yogurt chicken with mangoes.....

How, you might still be wondering, does one experience an epic bath fail? Well, there are two ways.

One, you endure a mudbath in Calistoga, CA. Disgusting. Tom and I chose this activity during our first trip together, to Napa many moons ago. We had been dating all of four months, thought this might be a nice change of pace from wine tasting, got into our respective baths and immediately felt like pigs in styes and got out. Yuk.

Secondly, and this happened this morning, you realize while at the market just how dirty you feel. I passed the fancy, made-in-house bath salt area and was transported to a clean, aromatic world as I trailed my nose slowly over the bins of seductively "flavored" salt scrubs. I sprung for a bit of the rosemary-lavender one, visions of a relaxing, leisurely, exfoliative soak hurrying me home. I drew my bath, the dial turned decidedly to hot, looked with horror at my unkempt legs and felt doubly glad I'd bought the scrub.

I dropped gratefully into my tub, shampooed and conditioned my hair and got to work on depilation and exfoliation. At that point, the water started to feel a bit cooler than I hoped. I turned the cold completely off and enthusiastically commenced scrubbing. People, this scrub should perhaps be renamed bath soak; it's a tad aggressive for a scrub. I think I lost a layer of skin over my whole body. I was smooth, so there's that. Concurrently, the hot water quit. Just quit, and I still had conditioner to rinse out of my hair. I hate cold baths like I hate winter in March. Neither is right. And suddenly, my languid tub felt like a vat of chilly challenge. I have never rinsed so quickly or flung myself into a towel with such need.

That, my friends, is a bath fail!