Quick hit: service to the teacher

I've blogged recently about the experience of entering a new physical training regimen, and all the complicated monkey-mind psychological baggage that brings up. But I've also blogged about my sense of debt to my teachers, and the sense--pretty much arising from the Sino-Japanese-Tibetan contexts in which the debts were incurred--of privilege that ensues when you actually have some grasp of the magnitude of what the teachers have willingly given you. It certainly informs how I myself think about teaching, and about the nature of the bond--the commitment beyond death--that can, and maybe should, obtain between teachers and students of concomitant commitment.

And I also recognize that, in the mercantile West, and especially when you introduce purchase-and-sale into the exchange, such dynamics can't, and maybe even oughtn't, to obtain. But that doesn't mean that I can't choose to perceive, and proceed from a perception, that connects me with ways of proceeding and interacting with the teacher that feel right.

Not everybody relates to the teacher this way. Not every teacher is right for every student. Not everybody should relate to the teacher in this way. But I do.

So when I read on the teacher's blog that, due to the demands of building the business, she winds up eating take-out and frozen food, I find myself thinking, "That's not appropriate, that my teacher should have to do that."

And so, at an hour when I'm usually thinking of going to sleep--and of the goddamned 8:00AM meetings which loom about 10 hours away, I'm making the hummus recipe that another admired friend gave us one magical night. And when I have the chance to pass this along as an offering to my admired teacher tomorrow night, it's going to feel like closing a very important circle. Or, as she would say, "a loop."

Once again.

Meet ye at the Rendezvous!

I've blogged before about the rendezvous that is the real reason why most musicians are willing to schlep the road--so that they can see one another again, and maybe pass along a little of the baraka to their students--and about the ingredients that fuel the rendezvous.

In this refrigerator shot: Kathy Morsell's hummus, local pita and tortillas, greens, homemade refritos, organic eggs, home-made yogurt. Black porter, IPA, quinine water, brown ale, a case of pinot noir on the back porch cooling, bottles of Black Bush and Laphroaig; looks like we're well-stocked to make our brothers welcome.

Welcome to the rendezvous.

Below the jump: Mr Man at his leisure.

C8H10N4O2 Thought

[on waking in Philly at 5:30am]


If I can't have good coffee, I think I don't want to be part of your revolution.

That is all.

Day 22 (Round IV) "In the trenches": Onion soup edition

As cheap as it gets. You can get ten pounds of onions for less than 3 dollars--more if on sale or at a farmer's market--and the latter is better for the local economy anyway.

When I was 20 years old I talked my way into a job as the first line cook they hired in a new restaurant startup. I had been building houses and I was fed up with getting home at 4pm too exhausted to practice. And I thought that learning to cook would be a portable workable trade--which it was--and didn't yet know that it's one of the more self-destructive lifestyles--that would take me a while to learn.

So I hoicked myself down to a small restaurant startup in my home town, to which I had moved back after burning out at the University of Chicago, and applied for a gig as their first employee. The only reasons I can think why they hired me--with little to zero professional cooking experience--would have been (a) they were both so exhausted: him from cooking 8am-12midnight, her from hostessing the same hours, and then doing the books, that they couldn't see straight, and (b) because they were unused to an applicant with such a polysyllabic vocabulary.

I learned a lot cooking there. I learned how to think like a cook, to understand the slow-motion ballet that is the interplay of cook, utensils, pans, foodstuffs, and heat, and to understand the heightened sense of accomplishment--and, let's face it, adrenaline--that came from cooking 115 meals over a 12 hour shift.

I also learned this version of onion soup.

Slicing the onions:

Rule #1: Chop way more onions than you think you'll need. Then chop the same volume again.

Hint: this is one of those "you've got to have a sharp knife" situations (or sitcheeayations, to quote O Brother). Cut the top and bottom stem off the onion. Then cut in half, DOWN from top to bottom (e.g., along the stem). You'll wind up with two half-hemispherical pieces, each half-sphere made up of the semicircular concentric half-rings of the onion's layers. Turn one of the halves flat-side-down on the cutting board. Slice once, twice, or three times across the axis of the stem--so that you wind up with a sideways stack of two, three, or four concentric half-circles. Then turn the knife 90 degrees, and cut down across the stack: you'll wind up with small, regular bits as the right-angle slices you've made, and the layers of the onion, yield three-dimensional rectangles.

Melt a good deal of butter over a not-too-hot flame in a large tureen. You're going to caramelize the onion: that is, you're going to cook the onion in the hot butter so that the onion turns brown ("caramel-colored") throughout, with crispy edges. This changes not only the texture of the onion, but also brings out its sweetness.

As the onion is cooking-down, keep stirring, scooping the hottest parts from the bottom of the tureen and "turning-over" the chopped onion, just as if you were turning soil. Continue this until the onion is completely caramelized.

As the onions cook down--and I'm talking maybe by 75%: 1 gallon of onions going down to 1 quart or less--add thyme, sage, garlic, black or white pepper, a bit of salt or tamari (the latter gives a nicer color), a good splash of white wine. Lower the flame to medium and stir in the spices, giving them a good 3-4:00 minutes to cook into the onions.

Once the spices have been heated through and absorbed by the onions, you can add 1 cup of stock per quart or so of onions. You can use any kind of stock: rendered or dry, chicken or vegetable. Be advised: if it's a commercial stock, especially the dry sort, you'll need to ramp down the added salt, as commercial stock contains a lot. When in doubt here, use less salt, more pepper, and more wine.

Allow to simmer on a low heat for at least 1 hour. Meantime, grate some hard-but-not-sharp cheese (Jack is good, sharp cheddar too); avoid the very salty romano's or parmesan, as there is already enough salt in the recipe. You're also going to restrict the cheese to a sprinkling on top of the bowl as you serve: people go wrong with onion soup when they use too much cheese, insufficiently toasted. Use less cheese and melt/toast further.

Meantime, slice a good whole-grain or sourdough bread and toast the rounds, enough so that they are crsip but not browned.

Spoon soup into bowls. Place a toasted bread-round on top of each bowl and sprinkle cheese over the top. Toast in a 450-degree oven for 3-4 minutes, until the cheese bubbles and melts.

Serve with a sharp white wine and a green salad, oil & vinegar dressing preferred.

Good peasant food.

Thanks, Steve Z.

Quick hit: good peasant food -- black bean dip

Crazy-busy day, too busy for a proper "In the trenches" post. Hoping to get caught-up over the long weekend.

In the meantime, here's a quick hit, "good peasant food" post. A young friend asked for the recipe for my black bean dip. Don't remember where I got this, but I feel confident that there's a lot of Lanford Monroe (rest her soul) in this one:

Dr Coyote's Black Bean Dip (or refritos)

Ingredients:

• Canned or dried black beans (if dried, which are cheaper and tastier, cook with either pressure cooker or by soaking overnight and then boiling in lots of water for at least 1 hour)
• Whole garlic
• Onions
• Cumin (fresh is best: buy as bulk seed in Indian market in town, then toast in a dry frying pan and grind with mortar-and-pestle or in a small food-processor)
• Whole lemons
• Olive oil

Chop the onions (about 1 medium onion per can of beans) or "chop" in a food processor (you can reserve the water in which the beans were canned or cooked).

"Smack" the cloves of garlic (about 1-2 per can) : press under the flat side of a knife blade to get the dried skin off, then squeeze/crush the clove under the knife blade to release the juices. Dice very fine by hand, or whirl in the food processor.

Saute chopped onions and garlic together in the olive oil in a good-sized pot: you want them to brown, but not burn (6-7 minutes at least).

While the onions & garlic cook, puree the cooked beans: you want them to be more-or-less like a thick paste.

When the onions/garlic have browned, reduce the heat and add the ground cumin, stirring to thoroughly mix. Let these simmer for 3-4 minutes, to release the full flavor of the cumin.

Add the cooked and pureed beans to the onions/garlic, stirring to mix; reduce heat to low (and watch out that the bean-paste doesn't scorch onto the bottom of the pan).

Add the juice of the squeezed lemons (about one lemon per can). Err on the side of "more lemon juice than you think). Continue to cook over low heat with lid on the pan.

I like to add a favorite hot-sauce at this stage, to taste. You can also use jalapenos (chop them and cook into the onions) or red chili powder.

NB: if the mixture is too thick, add a few tablespoons of the reserved bean-water back and stir to thin the consistency of the dip. If it is too thin, remove the lid and raise the heat *just a bit* until the dip cooks down and thickens.

That's about it! Serve with good-quality corn chips, fresh quartered tomatoes (a favorite), avocado slices, and/or warmed tortillas. A good quality Mexican beer (my own preference is for Bohemia) goes well.

Good peasant food.

Thank you, Lanford. We love you & we miss you.

Good peasant food: Kathy Morsell's hummus

A young friend-of-a-friend has expressed interest in, and some frustration at, trying to get started cooking in an economical and vegetarian way. Have been working for a while on a blog-post on "Dr Coyote's Kitchen", a kind of jump-start for ways of preparing what I've called elsewhere "good peasant food." But this young friend's request, and the fact that I spent the evening cooking another friend's recipe for another friend's relocation here to go to school, suggested a slightly different approach.

So, picking up from preliminary posts, here's the formalized "Good Peasant Food" series. In each, I'll lay out at least one recipe that fits the "economical and vegetarian" dicta, and also talk about some of the prep, cooking, cuisine, and maybe even philosophical issues that each suggests.

Here's the setup:

I've known The General for at least 10 years, and we're incredibly excited that he's just moved here from Taos NM to work on a Master's degree. Knowing that he's a fan of Middle Eastern food, and knowing that I'd originally got this recipe from a mutual friend, also in Taos, we thought it might be nice if he found a batch of this stuff in his fridge.

One night, years ago, we played, with our little Irish band, in the Adobe Bar of the Taos Inn--an ancient building just off the Plaza in that ancient town, with a fantastic wine-list and more than one resident ghost, which has been called "Taos's Living Room." I'm not a huge fan of the place--there's no real clear and sight-lined corner to set up the musicians, and there's a whole lot of Expensive Posing going on--but my buddy Coop had been going there since he was sixteen years old and skiing the Black Diamond runs in the Ski Valley.

So he was really looking forward to the gig, we had a lot of friends in the house, and a good turnout, and we had a good time. But it was afterwards that the evening really turned magical.

Kathy Morsell, a good friend who lived in a trailer in Sun Valley north of town with a pod of Jack Russells and rescued cats, was cooking at a veggie/organic restaurant called Western Sky, and after we'd broken down the PA system (the Adobe Bar's music shuts down early, because there are rooms just off the second-floor balcony) and loaded the cars, we headed out to the restaurant, whose kitchen itself had just closed down for the evening.

But Kathy, head chef, had stayed on, and had put together a fantastic feast that was all the more magical because it was cooked for us by someone we loved. We all sat around a big table, boarding house-style, with the stars of northern New Mexico through the picture windows flaring above the canyon's rim to the west, about 12 of us--friends, spouses, offspring, lovers, and lucky hangers-on--and Kathy just kept bringing dish after pan after casserole out of the kitchen: all vegetarian, all organic, all fresh, all local, and cooked with the virtuosity of a kitchen expert and the insight of a Zen practitioner.

It felt like we had walked out of the Adobe Bar and driven right off the edge of the mesa into some parallel universe with a million stars and the Milky Way in a night-black sky, where everyone cared for everyone else, where no animals would die, and where no-one need ever go hungry. Kathy Morsell, that night, showed us what such a world could be like: a world in which
we are brave enough, sufficiently aware, to express, moment-by-moment, how much we love one another.

This is one of the things she gave us.

Kathy Morsell's Hummus

Ingredients: chickpeas, lemons, tahini, olive oil, garlic, cumin, sea salt

Rather than giving specific amounts, I'll give rough proportions: adjust to taste.

For each cup of cooked chickpeas, use 1 clove garlic, 1/2 lemon, 3 tbs tahini, 2 tbs olive oil, cumin & salt to taste.

This dish is relatively quite low in calories & fats, high in fibre, and cheap as hell. As so often in cooking from scratch, using fresh ingredients, bought in bulk, provides both the best value, the healthiest result, and by far the best flavor. Buy the chickpeas dry and in bulk; find the tahini (sesame paste) and olive oil at a Middle Eastern market (you can even find Joyva tahini in most chain supermarkets, even here in Texas); buy the cumin in bulk, ideally as whole seeds, also in a Middle Eastern market; buy the garlic as whole cloves. In all cases, the flavors will be FAR better and the costs FAR lower.

Preparation:

If using dry chickpeas, the best way to prepare is in a pressure cooker. These are not cheap, but can very often be found (electric or stove-top versions) in Salvation Army or similar used-appliance store: they were central in 1950s and '60s cookery manuals, but fell out of favor when it became possible to buy more convenient (and more expensive, and inferior) canned beans. If you don't havve or can't afford a pressure cooker, soak the beans in 3x their volume of water overnight. Then bring to a boil, again in ample water, and cook until soft--the husks will start to peel away. Reserve this cooking water--do not discard.

If you want to go the full prep-route, rinse the cooked beans in clean water, and drain the floating husks away with the rinse water.

If using cumin seed, toast (don't burn) them in a dry frying pan over moderately high heat. As they are toasting, stir in the frying pan so they don't stick; when properly toasted, they'll turn dark brown and become quite aromatic. Remove from heat and allow to cool. When cooled, crush to a powder with a mortar & pestle, or in a food processor--another incredibly useful tool, which can be purchased quite cheaply and second-hand (old ones are fine--Dharmonia and I are using one that's at least 25 years old).

Before cutting and squeezing the lemons, here's a trick to maximize juice I learned from friend Terrie: ROLL each lemon, leaning on it hard, on the countertop. This will break-down the internal membranes and release the yield of juice per lemon.

If using whole garlic: separate into individual cloves. Cut off the hard tip and bottom of each clove. "Smack" the clove: that is, place it between the cutting board and the flat of your chef's knife, and smack down on the flat of the blade. This will loosen the dry husk; remove. Then, for additional flavor, lean hard on each clove, essentially crushing the clove flat before chopping. This will maximize the juiciness of the chopped garlic and its resulting flavor.

Cooking:

In the food processor: whirl the garlic cloves until they are finely chopped, scraping the sides of the canister.

Add the cooked chickpeas. Process again, on "puree" setting, and scraping the canister.

Squeeze the lemon. Process again, scraping the canister.

Add the olive oil and tahini. Puree.

If the mixture is still too stiff and/or dry--which it probably will be--add a small portion (like, a couple of tbs) of the reserved cooking water.

Add the cumin and salt. You will probably need to use more cumin and more salt than you might anticipate. But add in increments: it's easy to add one dash more, but overstep--make it too salty or spicy--and you've ruined the batch.

That's it! It keeps very well in the fridge, but it's nicest on the first day, when the ingredients are still fresh and still working with each other.

Hint: refrain from refrigerating, if possible, until you've served it, and ideally until it's all been eaten: hummus is absolutely at the tastiest at warm room-temperature, without having been chilled.

Serve with warm pita, raw veggies, good olives, feta or other aromatic cheese, and a good sharp white: Pinot Grigio is best.

And when you do serve it, hold in your mind the love and compassion and insight with which all the thousands of cooks over many hundreds of years before you have done the same.

Gassho, Kathy.

Good peasant food: Dr Coyote's stir-fry tips

Dr Coyote's stir-fry tips:

It's not supposed to be complicated--it's supposed to be simple. My German grandmother called the "whatever's left when the ice melted" soup/stew/casserole Oyupodweeda (German? Yiddish? no idea), and stir-fry is the East Asian equivalent. I'll save for another post the version that uses a sauce and freshly-cooked rice; this one is for stir-fry and added, pre-cooked "fried" rice. Good way to use up leftovers.

Arsenal:

A decent and properly-seasoned wok is hugely useful: if you buy one, you'll never need a frying pan again, for anything from parboiling, to toasting, to stir-fry, to deep-fry. It's worth the investment. Failing that, a decent and well-seasoned frying pan. Either way, you want a tight lid: helps contain the spattering oil (easing clean-up) and also helps warm things through when the cooking portion is done.

Some combination of high-temperature oil (canola is the best combination of efficacy and low-calorie; failing that, peanut oil is good but fatty; olive oil scorches at too low a temperature) and flavoring oil: I like toasted sesame oil.

Wooden spoon: I'm old-school; would rather use a non-metallic or petroleum-based cooking utensil and I don't really give a shit about the germs.

A good-quality, properly sharpened cook's knife. You want something between 8 and 10 inches, with an offset blade to protect your knuckles. If you don't know how to properly sharpen and maintain a knife, get somebody to show you--it's probably the single most important skill in competent cooking.

Premise:

You're going to cook things in reverse order of cooking time; e.g., the less time an item is going to take to cook, the later you introduce it to the pan. You want everything to be cooked through--but not overcooked--at the same time, which is right when you take it off the flame for serving. The only way to get all these ingredients' different cooking times coordinated is to introduce them in this reverse order.

Prep:

Chop all your ingredients in roughly the same bite-sized pieces, no more than 1" on a side (smaller, as long as all are consistent, is OK). If you're cooking any kind of protein (tofu, seitan, any kind of meat), you're going to cook that first--basically searing it in the oil to hold in the juices--and then remove from the wok, while reserving the oil that's been flavored by that cooking. Hard (root) vegetables--potato, squash, onion, broccoli, carrot--and medium-hard vegetables--especially peppers, bok choi, cabbage--should be chopped to the same size but will be introduced in the reverse order.

Cook:

Heat the oil in the wok. Use mostly vegetable (canola)--2 to 3 tablespoons if you're serving 4 people--with a splash of the flavoring--1/2 to 1 tablespoon. Get it hot, so that water flicked from the fingers will sizzle, but not so hot it's smoking: if it's smoking, it's starting to burn, and that scorch will come through in the flavor.

Sear and lightly cook whatever is the protein. No need to cook it through: you're flavoring, adding a nicely chewy texture, and locking in the moisture. Should take no more than 3 or 4 minutes. Toss regularly while cooking: this prevents sticking and allows all pieces to cook evenly. Remove from the wok and drain on a folded paper towel: this dries and de-greases the protein.

Now start cooking the veggies in the hot, protein-flavored oil. Start with the hardest (onions and broccoli), move to the next hardest (say, squash or potato), and finally to the least hard (peppers, bok choi, cabbage, etc). Continue tossing and stirring so all pieces cook evenly. Onions/broccoli will take 5-6 minutes, squash/potato 3-5, peppers/etc 1-3. Time the reverse order accordingly.

Seasoning:

Note: you want to season once the veggies are starting to cook, as they will be softened and made more porous, thereby absorbing more of the seasoning. I like some combination of garlic, ginger, chili (or red pepper). Err on the side of more garlic than you think necessary. You'll want a splash of soy or tamari, but be aware of two things: (1) the soy is mostly water, so introducing too early will cause it to sizzle and spatter--better to wait until the veggies are closer to cooked, and therefore more absorbent; (2) soy is a very pervasive flavor, and (especially when cooked down), very salty. So when you add the soy, think in terms of a "splash"--not a larger amount.

Return the seared protein to the wok and lightly toss so that it re-warms. Note: do this only when you're 90% done cooking the veggies: adding the lukewarm protein will bring down the overall temperature and slow the cooking of the veggies--so make sure they're mostly done first.

If you're using, as suggested, pre-cooked rice (brown rice works beautifully here), add the rice here. If it's at all sticky, break up the clumps with your fingers: you want the flavored oil to be able to get at each separate grain. Stir lightly so that veggies, oil, protein, and rice are relatively evenly distributed. I like to add the splash of soy now, as that way it can get to all the components evenly.

Garnish:

The make-or-break in a pleasant stir-fry is not ingredients, or even seasoning, but texture: stir-fry is about actually tasting the ingredients themselves, not the seasonings or the char of the fry. Therefore, undercook, as this will preserve both the contrasting flavors and the contrasting textures of the hard/medium/soft veggies and chewy protein. As an added fillip of texture, I like something crunchy for a garnish: lots of Thai, Vietnamese, and South China Sea cooking uses grated peanuts, but I prefer grated (or food-processed) roasted/toasted almonds.

Presentation:

Serve in bowls (it is after all a one-pot meal). A really crisp white wine or a good Asian beer go very well.

Note:

The yin/yang balance of this meal is such that you'll probably develop a sweet tooth after finishing. Hence, it's nice to have on hand either (a) some chilled melon--maybe in a sweet sauce? or (b) some good-quality plain yogurt with a little bit of sweetened syrup. This will redress the yin/yang balance very well.

Good peasant food.

Good peasant food

Dr Coyote's mock Ma-Po Tofu.

Was reminded of this by an article on a China Ex-pat blog I've been following since last spring's tour. Hadn't had Ma-Po Tofu in years--since Bloomington, anyway, but it certainly is dead-easy, and thus maintains my highest priority for a recipe: that I don't have to follow it, but can more-or-less make it up out of my head.

Start a pot of brown rice. Once at a boil, reduce to low simmer, cover tightly, and leave it alone, for at least 30 minutes.

Meantime, dice 1 block extra-firm tofu into 1/2-inch cubes. Fry over high-heat in 2-3 tablespoons of vegetable oil (olive oil will burn over high heat) with a splash of toasted sesame oil added. Continue until brown and crisped on the outside. About mid-way through the frying process, add a good splash of tamari--but have a cover handy, as at this temperature the tamari will sizzle and splash. Scrape the pan occasionally with a spatula to keep the tofu from burning onto the bottom. You can also add sliced celery, bamboo shoots, asparagus, pepper, or other crunchy soft vegetable.

Whisk together in a mixing bowl some combination of the following: 2 tablespoons tamari, 3 tbs of white wine, 2 tbs white or cider vinegar, at least 1 tbs brown sugar, 1 tsp garlic powder, 1 tsp ginger, a good dose of chili powder, and at least 1 rounded tablespoon of cornstarch. You'll have to whisk hard to get and keep the cornstarch in solution.

Add the liquid to the tofu, stir well, and reduce heat to a simmer. Leave the lid cracked so the liquid can reduce. When cooked down to a thickened gravy texture, you're ready to serve the tofu over the rice. Garnish with ground almonds or peanuts.

Low trans-fats, relatively low-cal, relatively well-balanced (though you may experience a craving for dairy and/or sweets afterward), cheap as hell.

Good peasant food.

Good peasant food

Dr Coyote's instant biryani

An Indian one-pot dish, basically rice, lentils, and vegetables, with appropriate spices.
Serves about 6.

Chop 1 medium onion coarsely: saute in vegetable oil/sesame oil mix over medium-high heat.

After 2-3 minutes, add 1 cup chopped carrots.

Add any other desired vegetables (broccoli, peppers, etc) to the saute, in reverse relation to their hardness (e.g.,the softer the veggie, the later you should add, as it will take less cooking time).

Meanwhile, chop 1 lb. of tofu into roughly 1/2-inch cubes; stir-fry in hot oil (ideally in a wok) over high heat; when fried golden brown, remove and drain on a paper towel.

Meanwhile, wash and cook 2 cups red lentils in 4 cups water for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, wash and cook 2 cups white rice (Japanese style: wash, cover with an extra inch of water, bring to a boil, reduce to a low simmer, cover tightly, and leave it alone).

To the saute, add garlic, dry mustard, turmeric, garam masala (curry spice) or a bit of cumin, cayenne or other chile spice, salt, all to taste.

To the saute, add about 2/3 tomato puree. Simmer on low heat.

When lentils are cooked (about 10 minutes), stir into the spiced saute.

When rice is cooked (about 22 minutes), stir in the saute + lentils.

Stir in the sauteed tofu.

Cover tightly and allow to cook down 10-15 minutes.

Adjust spices to taste.

Garnish with chopped almonds and/or parsley. Serve with warmed chappatis, pita, or tortillas. An IPA is not out of place.

Below the jump: results.

Day 33 (Round II) "In the trenches" (icy mofo edition)

Yes: Barack Obama is one icy mofo.

Beyond that: EOB, 8th week of school. We're now more than 1/2 way through the semester. First exams are done, first hurdles of student openness and responsibility are past, mid-semester grades go live over the weekend, because there is no real point in giving freshmen additional time to freak out and scream for mercy in a misguided attempt to pull a grade change--better that they encounter those grades after the window for changing them is past. As a colleague says, very wisely, "They need time to calm the hell down." Many kids, encountering a grade they don't like or which they know won't fly with Mom 'n' Dad, will fire off a scattershot pleading email, not necessarily because they think it will have good odds of success, but simply because it is so easy, in their on-demand mindset, to throw the plea against the wall on the off chance that it'll stick. It takes them so little effort that they'll do it just to play the odds.

Which is precisely why we ignore such "tear-stained emails" (Dharmonia's construction) until the cutoff time is past. In the unlikely event that there has been an error, or even less likely that we will grant a grade change due to extenuating circumstances of which we've previously been unaware, we can always do that after the cutoff date. And, in the much commoner instances of grade-change-requests which have absolutely no justification in any objective factual world, ignoring until past-deadline is a good way to just make the little bastards, as my colleague said, calm the hell down. If the grade-change request doesn't stick against the wall, they'll mostly just throw up their hands and belatedly accept the grade earned, as they shouldd have done earlier.

On the other hand, it seems like a good bunch this year: not too whiny, reasonably good attendance, reasonable good attention, pretty responsive to the jokes 'n' japes. Every year's intake of new freshmen is different and there's no real predicting in advance, but I think what we're seeing here is an eventual manifestation of our enhanced admissions criteria. That is not to say that kids with higher academic achievement are automatically going to be either (a) more talented or (b) more mature/focused in their work--that's putting the cart before the horse. To stretch the metaphor: the kids with higher academic achievement have already--before we get 'em--learned that a focused, mature, and disciplined attitude about work in turn leads to better results (and a better ability to take advantage of whatever talent the universe has given you). Kids with greater academic problems, problems already manifesting in secondary school, are slightly more likely not to have yet learned the self-discipline and work-ethic stuff. As I've said before, music undergrads tend to be way more conscientious and self-disciplined, simply because they've had to learn to be that way in order to learn to cut it on their instruments. Unfortunately, not all of those latter have learned to transfer the lesson from study of an instrument to academic study. We'll do the remediation, but the less remediation we have to do--and the less we have to fight our way through their uninformed skepticism about whether they need to accomplish what we set forth--the easier it is for everybody to progress effectively together.

This year's seems like a pretty good bunch.

Below the jump: the "Santa Ana" tomatoes that the proverbial Old Guy at the Garden Center said were "the on'y kahn'a termaters that'll grow in Wes' Texis." By God he was right, too: after three years of growing healthy vines but no fruits in the raised beds I built for Dharmonia, these are wonderful: thick-skinned, but with wonderful juicy and chewy innards: absolutely great for cooking, canning, or sauces. Below that, a counter-ful of veggies that I'll turn into various circum-Mediterranean eats: tiny pickling cucumbers, tossed in salt so as to draw out moisture and in turn make them receptive to soaking up the brine for refrigerator pickles; lemons that, with garlic and basil, will go into the Provencal cannelini (white beans)--lemon, garlic, basil, and pepper are the essential combination of flavors for southern French and some central Italian cuisines; broccoli to be sauteed in olive oil in which the chopped garlic on the right has previously been browned; the aforementioned tomatoes (great for sauce, but also--when still warm from the vine--great just slicked and drizzled with a little olive oil and salt); whole-wheat pasta to be dressed with a little garlic, oil, and grated romano cheese.

Good peasant food: cheap, healthy, low trans-fats, mostly-dairy-free. And no animals had to die for it.
Beyond that: prayers for the spirit of Daniel Green, who died entirely too young, for reasons not his fault. One of the very hardest parts of my job is to help young people cope with tragedy and heartbreak that happens for absolutely no good reason: to cope with the reality that the universe simply contains suffering and that we all, contrary to the "Good People versus "Bad People" paradigms of some traditions, are going to suffer. For no good reason.

All we can do is make the most/best of our time here.

Daniel certainly did.

Day 32 (Round II) "In the trenches" (telegraphic cuisine edition)

Just ain't no time for considered prose today--too many events, too many people, too many deadlines to meet. So, in lieu of said prose--and because I'm trying to keep my mind off Round III and Final of the Smackdown going on over on the network channels, here's some good cheap peasant food:

Dr Coyote's Silk Road Special (pilau for poor folks):

Cook one cup red or green lentils (red are prettier) in about 4 cups water, at a light boil, for around forty minutes; when cooked until al dente, drain but reserve the water.

Cook one cup of basmati rice in at least a thumbnail's depth of water (see prior treatments); once boiling, reduce to simmer, cover, and leave it alone.

In a decent-sized skillet, cook approx 4 cloves chopped garlic in 1 tablespoon olive or sesame oil until golden brown; add 1 cup chopped onion and continue to saute, until lightly browned. Add a solid teaspoon of turmeric and same of cumin to garlic/onion mixture; saute on slightly-reduced heat until spices are dissolved into and coat the vegetables.

Add the lentils to the garlic/onion/spices, plus a splash (about 1/3 cup) of the cooking liquid. Stir over moderate heat for a minute or two, until all ingredients are mixed, and the liquid is mostly reduced.

Add the rice to the lentil/garlic/onion mixture and stir over low heat until mixed. Add black pepper, and a dash of salt (to taste). Garnish with grated almond or chopped pine-nuts. Serve with a green salad and warmed pita bread. And a nice rough red wine is never unwelcome.

Should feed at least 4 for one meal--or two, with leftovers for next day (to prepare as leftovers, stir/warm on the stove in a dry skillet).

"Good peasant food"

Years ago, Alan S----, who introduced me both to De Danann and the very baroque ins-and-outs of certain kinds of psychosexual politics, also taught me some cooking principles, most crucial of which he called "good peasant food." He cooked rice, or pasta, or pesto, or corn and beans, and usually based those recipes upon poor-folks' food from around the world: Mexico, South Europe, the Mediterranean, Southeast Asia, etc. And typically they reflected the same basic ideas: use local food and avoid costly stuff that travels; avoid expensive meat and fish; combine grains, beans, and greens to maximize effective protein results; learn the particular spices that provide the feel of particular regional cuisines (cumin, garlic, and cayenne for Mexico; turmeric, cumin, garlic, and chile for India; lemon, garlic, basil, salt and pepper for the Med; sage, thyme, onion, and garlic for Ireland and the British Isles).

He called it "good peasant food" because he had already sussed out, like generations upon generations of poor people the world over, that these principles yielded good, healthy, tasteful food at low cost.

It's thus no revelation that both the "slow food" movement and the various lifehacker.org types who are now, finally, belatedly, 30 years too late, talking about lowering food costs are talking about these same things. Beans are cheaper than meat; dried or local food is cheaper than imported or animal food; cooking for yourself is cheaper than eating or taking out.

Hence this:

Dr Coyote's "good peasant food" chickpea pasta

Soak, pressure-cook, or open a can of chickpeas. Wash carefully but save the canning water.

If/as possible, immerse the chickpeas in water. If they're soaked or pressure-cooked, the hulls will gradually float to the surface of the water and can be scooped away (hulled chickpeas are much nicer--Tom Binkley used to insist upon them).

Meanwhile, boil water, with a splash of olive oil, sufficient to deeply cover however much pasta--you can never have too high a proportion of water to dried pasta. Bring to strong rolling boil.

Add pasta, stirring once or twice to keep the pasta from sticking. Turn heat down and cover the pot with the lid (but leave it cracked open so steam can escape): make sure a light boil continues. Do NOT let the water come off the boil.

Meanwhile, heat canned or jarred tomato sauce. Split the amount of your chickpeas. Roughly chop, food process or blend 1/2 chickpeas--leave them crumbly. Add to tomato sauce and stir.

Then add second 1/2 of whole chickpeas. Simmer sauce until warmed through.

Cook pasta until still relatively al dente (chewy). Remover from heat, drain, return to pot, and add a splash of olive oil. Stir and return to the now-shut-off (but still warm) burner. Cover for 2 to 3 minutes (this completes the cooking and infuses the pasta with the flavor of the olive oil). Add chickpea sauce and stir. Garnish with grated cheese (or perhaps pignolia or grated almonds).

Serve with a green salad, tossed with 7 parts olive oil to 1 part wine vinegar. Sprinkle with black pepper and a bit of salt.

Serve with crusty bread and a cheap red wine.

It's fed people in South Europe for 1000 years--since pasta came from China--and it'll feed you too.

Tashi delek

Too busy a day to post much: 40 minutes on the elliptical, moved a harpsichord, produced a radio program, practiced 2 hours, taught a 90-minute slow session, and tried a recipe I've never made before.

Years ago, in Bloomington, Dharmonia and I were privileged to become good friends with a community of Tibetan monks, about whom I've written elsewhere. In addition to everything else they taught us (and continue to teach us), we also got to eat, and learn to cook, an awful lot of great Tibetan food.

Though these monks are very devout observers of the Precepts, those precepts were modified in Tibet just as the Dharma has been modified to fit all the local cultures into which it has moved: India, Tibet, China, Japan, Burma, and so forth. In the case of Tibet, the Precepts were modified to let the monks eat meat (provided someone else did the actual killing). This may seem like a fundamental violation of the "don't kill" Precept, but it was also very practical: most Tibetans live above 7000 feet, and it's damned difficult to grow enough high-protein grains to be able to be strictly vegetarian. That's why they lived on barley (a high-altitude grain), dairy, and meat--typically beef.

In the West, those whose basis for vegetarianism is ethical (e.g., "don't kill") tend to presume that the lower down the food-chain the animal, the less the sin: e.g., eating fish is less ethically problematic than eating beef. The Tibetans neatly invert this: regarding all live as sacred, as they do, they prefer to take as few lives as possible: the Tibetans would say "one yak can feed ten people for a month," and that is one life sacrificed to nourish ten--whereas a chicken, or fish, feeds fewer people for less time. I don't regard this as righter-or-wronger than any other position--but it does illustrate the way that every decision in a Buddhist's life can be seen as an opportunity to think about how to realize the Dharma in a flawed world.

Anyway--to tonight's dinner. There are a lot of restaurants here, but not a Tibetan one. Dharmonia and I ate at a great place in Northampton Mass over the holidays, and were reminded how much we love that food, and how much the mere smell of their food reminds us of our friends who we miss so much.

So I got this bee in my bonnet that I was going to learn to make mo-mo's. These are the fundamental staple of Tibetan cuisine: steamed flour dumplings, filled with vegetables, beef, or potatoes, made and consumed in staggering large quantities by Tibetan monks worldwide. Our friend and teacher Geshe-La would typically make 200 mo-mo's or more at a time, and his monks and guests would regularly put away all of them. Like peasant food all over the world, they're a way of stretching a little bit of protein a long way: just like dim sum, or tacos, or capelletti, and so forth. I'd never made them, but God knows I've watched them being made (and eaten hundreds).

So I told Dharmonia, "you know, I think I'll try to teach myself to make mo-mo's this weekend. But I guess I'll have to get one of those steamer pans like Geshe-La has." Two days later, one appeared on the back seat of the car. I used to joke with Geshe-La that I would have made a very bad monk--unless I could be the Tenzo.

It's nice to be married to someone who knows me--and likes my cooking!

More shots below the jump.