grainy waldorf salad

While crunching my way toward lunch at the gym today, I was interrupted by a tentative voice.

“Can I ask you a question?” said a slim woman stretched out beside me on the mat, a second-year student at the oldest. “Sure!” I responded, anticipating a question about form or my Lululemon tank top, as has happened before. “How many days a week do you work out?”

She proceeded to disclose her desire for more muscle definition, and I advised away until I the “you’re boring me” cloud came over her expression. Not that I’m any expert, I just love talking about this stuff. Plus, I have a few fellow nuts in my life who exacerbate the tendency to preach the gospel of health and fitness.

This little salad I whipped up from fridge remnants is for you, dear. It’s got protein and all the post-crunch crunch you need to get you through your afternoon.

I don’t usually post on things I throw together on everyday afternoons. Just because I’m a food blogger does not license me to share every morsel chewed and swallowed.  My readers have better things to do than hear about Finn Crisps spread with peanut butter, sardines straight from the tin, and numerous kefir smoothies. (Ok, that last one did get a post, but only because I’m evangelical about kefir!)

But sometimes random is best, as I’ve written about before. Random is beautiful, and when you start with good, wholesome ingredients, you really can’t go wrong.

Today’s creation was good enough to share, at least for inspirations’ sake. The cup or so of quinoa I’d cooked to use in these muffins was sitting neglected beside my eggs. I had a two sticks of celery, a Macintosh apple that was looking to retire, and all kinds of other worthy additions hiding in my freezer and cupboards.

In went the chopped apple and celery. In went the dried cranberries and sunflower seeds. In went the red onion, salt, pepper, and drizzles of sherry vinegar. One bite revealed that no further tweaks were needed. I poured myself a glass of kombucha and settled into my writing.

So wherever you are, ab-girl, keep crunching. And squatting and lifting and curling. You’re already beautiful, but you deserve to be as strong and powerful as I know you can be.

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run for it green chili

On an afternoon last month that could have frozen a habanero, I sipped coffee with an old friend. She’s a loving and assiduous mother, and one of the most compassionate peopleI know. She’s one of those friends who makes you miss have friends near who know you like that. One of those friends who makes you wish coffee was free and decaf better-tasting and diamond-clear Winnipeg afternoons 3 hours longer.

One of those friends whose hunger for your company makes you feel like the most interesting person in the world.

It was almost January. The promise of a new year had filled us with hope — however negligible these flips of the calendar are. Gingerly, she placed her own goal onto the pile we’d amassed between our white mugs: she was going to start running. I was instructed not to tell the world; she wanted to do this in small, private steps, until she’d proven to herself that she could.

The other day we spoke again, this time over the phone. It had been a month, and unlike so many other hopeful new runners, she’d stuck with it. She’d joined a new runner’s group, and day after fridgid -30 day, melted those snowy roads with perseverance.

We caught up. We talked about things friends talk about: love, mornings, naps, looking ahead and looking back.  Oh yes, and running. I did my best to respond to her questions. Good shoes are indispensable. Everything’s better in the spring. Pain is normal, but also a red flag. You’re in control of your form, your stride, your attitude. Make sure to get enough protein.

I told her I would dedicate my next recipe to that last one, and here it is.

From a cookbook I picked up the other day (when I was supposed to be buying a textbook), this soup is the perfect chili-soup hybrid. It roils with the taste of crushed coriander and cumin seeds, punctuating this grey season with its four-fold green. Whether you choose the original or a vegetarian modification, this soup delivers protein in at least two delicious forms: with quinoa, beans, and chicken (if you choose) you athletes out there really can’t go wrong.

When friends are too far to measure out afternoons in coffee spoons, soup spoons are a worthy substitute.

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free-form barley salad

A few months ago I stumbled across this quote from Andrew Sullivan, senior editor at The Atlantic. It perfectly captures what I like about blogging, and by extension, cooking. He says

“Blogging is to writing what extreme sports are to athletics.

More free-form, more accident-prone, less formal, more alive.

Blogging is writing out lout.”

Though I love to follow an elegantly-written recipe, free-form cooking offers thrills I just can’t resist from time to time. Just like extreme sports, it’s more accident prone (What if I over spice? What if the flavors don’t mix?), less formal (a pinch of this a handful of that), more alive.  It’s not the product of another’s experimentation, but a process—a story—of your very own.

Spontanous cooking is sexy. Watching anyone at home in their trade shows this ease of skill, this compelling deftness. A lemon is juiced over a salad glistening with oil. The heel of hands push into soft dough. A spoon meets a pink mouth for the first taste.

To cook this way is to be attuned to the senses.

I’ve just returned to Syracuse from almost a month at home in Winnipeg. Spending winter break there is always wonderful, but requires it’s share of adjustments. Life, and eating, is so different there than it is ’round here on our own: There is more accountability. There is more time spent in cars. There is a whole lot more food.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved every minute of it. Every eggnog-soaked, shortbreak-cookie stacked second. Waking up to my mom’s pillowy poppyseed buns swirled with sticky black decadence. Eating proper lunches every day (usually I just healthy-snack all day). Drinking wine almost every evening. Multiple-dish dinners followed by trays of sugar and butter, dressed up ten or more different ways. Around every corner, someone else wanting to please. Love shown in material provision, food preparation, with joy laced through like silver threads.

A journey back into that world always makes me thankful to return to my own kitchen, in control of what and how I eat.  Sure, it’s more work. Sure, it’s not as scrumptiously lazy. But my heart did jump last night when Mark accepted a dinner invite and offered to bring a salad. I was on it. I couldn’t wait to get my hands back on my food.

I put that urge together with some barley, a roasted acorn squash, an apple, some chickpeas, toasted walnuts, cilantro, currants, and other random cupboard samplings. The salad morphed and changed at my fingertips as I pinched and dashed, sprinkled and salted.

Then I stepped back. My welcome-back to your health, probably-not-perfect barley salad stared back at me from the bowl. But in a way, around a small table in very snowy Syracuse, it was perfect.

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