INSIDE OUT: HOW A POT OF CHOWDER IS A COMMENT ON DIVERSITY

Ciao'd with a glass of fino sherry.

My dogs, Kai, origin Newfoundland, Tiki, a German, and Koa, whose breed (Carolina Dog) traversed over the land bridge from Asia to become the first domesticated dogs in America. Photo credit: Alexandra Sasha de Jesus.

The first time I saw a black person I was in kindergarten. Chucky Newell entered the classroom wearing a bright yellow Charlie Brown shirt, the one with the bold black zig- zag skirting the bottom seam. I was assigned to be his buddy.

We sat upon our sit-upons, cloth mats we “stitched” with seaming tape and fabric glue. I was tan from a summer at the Cape. “Where did you go this summer?” I asked Chucky. “I played at the park,” he replied. “But how did you get so tan if you weren’t at the beach?” “I’m not tan dumb head, I’m an Afro-American.”

I was aware of Martin Luther King, Jr. (he preferred Negro to Afro-American), Arthur Ashe and Diahann Carroll, who starred in one of my favorite TV shows, Julia. Julia was a nurse who had a little boy about kindergarten age. I knew Afro-Americans, just not in real-life.

Chucky and I shared a love for books. During the course of the year, we “read” picture books, knowing the stories so well we could recite them by heart. Policeman Small, Pretzel, The Snowy Day, The Little Farm, Blueberries for Sal and more Golden Books than I can list here. 

We pledged allegiance to the flag (“with liberty and justice for all”), drank milk from little wax-lined containers, played Red Rover on the playground, sang Bingo, This Old Man and Frere Jacques (in the round!) while Mrs. Banks accompanied us on the upright piano in the corner of the room.  

We were silly, curious and sometimes naughty (I talked to much; Chucky fidgeted). Our desires were simple. We wanted to play, have friends, be heard and be loved.  We were like every other kid in the classroom and for that matter, the world. Different colored shell on the outside perhaps but the same yolk on the inside.

It's a verity that begs the question: who would teach their kids to hate? What parent would build a soapbox of entitlement for his or her child? Why would anybody sit around a dinner table and spout heinous opinions about people who look different/speak another language/pray in a temple rather than beneath a steeple? I’m guessing the parents’ parents did the same. This is neither nurture nor nature. As my grandmother used to say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree – whether it’s rotten or pure.

Can we be honest with each other? Is there a teeny, weeny part of you way down deep that dismisses another? I’ll admit to it. I malign the group who comprises the largest segment of the student body in the University of California system. I also know that this reproach stems from envy that my kid, while academically successful, did not put academics at the top of his priority list and the culture of our family did not either. So my son did not earn the GPA that would grant him entry to a UC school and my husband and I did not attain the pure, unadulterated wonderfulness of UC tuition.

While I am not pretending to make light of prejudice (it’s revolting), here’s one that is so comical it defines the stupidity and ignorance of bias. Prius owners cannot drive. They cut me off, drive slowly in the fast lane, and tail gate. There are approximately 4 million Prii (yes, that is the plural of Prius) on the road. See, I told you. Proof of a generalization that is so ridiculous it’s ludicrous. Mea culpa to the land of the Prii.

And let me say this, too. What goes around comes around. How many times in corporate reviews have I heard the words, "You're emotional but of course, you are a creative." "Executive leadership demands gravitas. You might want to modulate your passion." "She's Italian. What do you expect?" Don't even get me started on the pin pricks of discrmination based on my sex which trumped (Oh, God, did I really use that word?) my intelligence, talent, and experience. Bias stings. It makes us question our worth and our purpose. It makes me sad. 

Chucky moved away in third grade. Here and there as life has passed, I’ve wondered what became of him. A few years ago, a childhood friend told me that Chucky lives in Florida. He’s an elementary school principal. If the child is the father of the man, his charges are fortunate. I’m sure he is as fair and fun as he was when were friends too many years ago.

America is the melting pot, people. Everybody knows that a pot of something tastes better when the ingredients meld harmoniously. Choose your recipe. Celebrate the deliciousness of diversity.

RECIPE

CORN CHOWDER WITH SHRIMP

Fresh sweet corn and briny wild shrimp play perfectly in this chowder. It makes a lovely simple supper dinner or lunch. Add an arugula salad and crusty bread and you're good to go!

Serves 4

2 ounces diced pancetta (about 1/4 cup)
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced
1 medium red onion, diced
3 cups fresh or frozen corn kernels
3 cups diced red potatoes
3 sprigs fresh thyme
1 bay leaf
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
4 cups whole milk
1 pound medium shrimp, peeled and deveiend
Smoked paprika, for sprinkling

In a medium Dutch oven or pot over medium-high heat, cook the pancetta until it just crispy. Add the celery, onion, corn, potatoes, thyme, bay leaf, and a generous pinch of salt and pepper. Cook, stirring to combine the ingredients, 3 minutes. Add the flour and stir to incorporate into the mixture. Add the milk, cover the pot and bring to a soft boil. Uncover, reduce the heat to low and simmer until the vegetables are tender, 8 to minutes. Discard the thyme sprigs and bay leaf. 

Stir in the shrimp and cook until opaque, 3 to 4 minutes. Taste for seasoning. Spoon into bowls and sprinkle with the paprika. 
 

THE SEPTEMBER CLOCK

Ciao'd with a tomato sandwich on squishy white bread

September has always been my touchstone for what's to come, what I hope will come, during the next year. Some people start the journey with New Year's resolutions, others with a budget for the new fiscal year.

The onset of the school year signaled the potential for reinvention, growth, and conquering what would be new and different. It was exciting. I loved the first day, the smell of chalk in the schoolroom and disinfectant in the halls, the likes of which would become increasingly mellowed as the school year ebbed and the musk of bodies skulking the halls, wet mittens, pencil shavings and molding lockers burgeoned. I loved, loved, loved college where I found myself and had a hell of a lot of fun. I don't care what people say; those years are the best years.

Later, photos of my son (names have been omitted to protect the not-so-innocent) on his first day of school ticked the passing years. They chronicle nursery school and the take-off to grammar school when I had the power to dress him as I pleased, his long blonde curls brushing the collar of his polo shirt. The brand of sneakers I preferred embraced his little feet. Except for a momentary pivot to brightly-colored soccer jerseys emblazoned with European team logos, Real Madrid and Manchester United among his favorites, he opted for khaki shorts, surf t-shirts (white) and Vans, a preference he wears to this day. As my son got older, I had to wrangle him for a first-day photo. These last few years he has downright refused me so I mentally snap the photos and file them in my memory.

This year, my son will be a senior. Five feet-eight inches tall, lanky and lean. He insists on wearing white Vans. They assume a boggy hue when he kicks ashes at beach bonfires, toes his skateboard, hikes to his posse's secret lair on Mt. Tam (I can only imagine the shenanigans), and skin boards on sports fields in the rain. He stands for God knows how long at the mirror finessing his hair and the John F. Kennedy waves therein. I am inordinately proud of this. JFK rocked the hair.

As each year passes, especially in high school, my son morphs more distinctly into a dimensional human being. His sense of humor sends me into hiccupping laughter, sometimes accompanied by tears. He has a knack for casting this spell on me even when I am cross with him. I suppose this will help diffuse marital spats later in life. His athleticism has blossomed and I am mesmerized by his litheness and acumen on the lacrosse field. I love his friends, their kinetic energy inciting a cyclone in my house fueled by silliness, vigorous opinions about sports, music, politics and girls, ravenous appetites, and sometimes, requests for my opinion. I try to be cool in the not-so-cool way of parents but I can never reach the high coolness of teenagers. Notes to those embarking on this wild ride: Do NOT comment on their music unless you write/perform/produce it. Stay AWAY from admitting that you smoke pot/weed/marijuana until they catch you in the act. They will. 

This year flags the race (and it is surely a race as time will fly at the speed of light) to next September when my son leaves for college and the commencement of life on his own. It will be a stressful year as he fills out college applications and anticipates acceptances and endures rejections. It will be an exhilarating year, too. As each month passes, he will experience a sense of freedom (and a day or five of playing hooky). Graduation will be a moment of happiness and relief for him. It will be a day of pride, tears, and an impending sense of loss for me.

I read a draft of his college essay the other day. The values my husband and I strived to instill in him yet didn't know he harbored so deeply floated to the fore. "So I have to ask: is making tons of money all there is to life? Can we have a good life without loving what we do for a living? Can a person have both a job he loves and make enough money to live a good life at the same time? Can we be true to our authentic selves?" and "I think there's a morality to not taking the same path as everyone else and instead, really searching to find the thing I love doing. I believe you can learn more from experiences and connecting with others; you can benefit from learning what goes on around you as much as from what happens in the pages of a book."

Clearly, I am not as evolved as my 17-year-old. I ask myself the same questions to this day. If my son is aware enough to pose these questions now, I am confident he will remain open to the wisdom of the universe and find his true purpose. If at some point he can answer this question posed by David Brooks, "Am I living for my resume or my eulogy?" and choose the latter option, I will know that he is on track for a happy, satisfying life. If we parents were to shelve the bright and shiny yet evanescent lure of 4.0+ grades, D1 sports commitments, Ivy League (and UC for that matter) acceptances and full rides to college (though that would be nice), isn't this the triumph, the masterpiece, the grand slam, the BLESSING that we all want for our kids?

RECIPE

TOMATO SALAD WITH OREGANO
Cialleda

The end of summer may be bitter but the tomatoes are still sweet. Were you to enjoy this light and refreshing summer salad in Puglia, it would include chunks of friselle, a round, very hard bread made from semolina flour. The friselle is soaked in water and then added to the tomatoes, a humble version of Tuscany’s panzanella. It’s difficult to find friselle stateside. Substitute stale, hard country bread for it. There are many versions of cialledda. This is the version I enjoyed with my father.

Find it here.

MARK BITTMAN'S CORN SALAD WITH TOMATOES, FETA AND MINT

Ciao'd with a blueberry muffin and a glass of rosé

After a few weeks back East, I returned home to find a mint melee in the garden. The Greek oregano, while abundant, was no match for the madding crowd of mint. The chives popped above it, their purple flowers bobbing like surrender flags.

What to do? I can make mint pesto for grilled lamb, add the herb to salads and smoothies, create pretty ice cubes, or stir it into ricotta as a topping for crostini with peaches and prosciutto. 

No doubt I will get around to all of these options; however, a trip to the farmers market sparked another idea.  Wouldn’t sweet, crunchy yellow corn and fat, juicy cherry tomatoes make the perfect canvas for a pretty and toothsome salad whose flavor would be lifted by the refreshing mint and perhaps, a salty snap of ricotta salata?  

Proving that there are few new ideas in the cooking world, wouldn’t you know that the great Mark Bittman had already created a recipe for this salad? Prior to seeing MB’s recipe, my musings about the salad popped cherry tomatoes into the mix rather than the medium ones MB suggested and opted for ricotta salata rather than feta.

Mark Bittman’s Corn Salad with Tomatoes, Feta and Mint is super delicious not to mention beautiful in a bright summer kind of way. Your mission to success is finding sweet, ripe corn and juicy, red tomatoes. If you need mint, come on over to my garden and help yourself. I’m afraid I’ll wake up one morning and it will be creeping through my kitchen windows.

Here’s Mark Bittman’s recipe for Corn Salad with Tomatoes, Feta and Mint. Enjoy!

FARMERS MARKET BLUEBERRY-RASPBERRY MUFFINS

Ciao'd with a milky iced coffee.

Photo by Reyn Reeser

Mid-July is upon us. Home gardens burgeon with ripeness; the farmers market even more so. On Sundays, I arrive just before opening time. It's a race to my favorite growers in order to claim first dibs on the emerald-streaked, petite zucchini, glowing red tomatoes - some already dented and oozing juice, dewy lettuces, milky corn and the sweetest, plumpest berries. 

To many who toil in corporate jobs, weather commuter traffic, and queue in supermarket cashier lines, a farmer's life seems idyllic. So what if a farmer must rise before the sun and toil until the dark rolls in to cover the fields for the evening? You can manage this every day of the week, the month, the year. It's enticing to dream about dropping the corporate scepter and picking up the mantle of an earthy, some would say more honest, life. Just think. You'd begin the day with a hearty farm breakfast (eggs from your chickens, bacon from your hogs), maybe milk a cow (or 50), stroll through the orchard to check on the peaches' progress. Your management experience will come in handy as you direct the serfs to pluck corn from field one or tomatoes from field two. Then you'll get up and do it all again, albeit without the assurance of a bi-weekly paycheck, health insurance, and a 401K. 

Today at the market I couldn't help but catch the scent of agrarian competition rifling through the heady aroma of peaches and the licorice lick of basil. If customers are dueling for the cream of the crop, it's up to the farmers to whip that cream. Some offered samples, others proffered tastes tinged with verbal assurances that their produce was top 'o the crop (some earnest, others amusing, and still others downright flirty). Many stalls were Instagram worthy with their lavish mash-ups of cascading red and green peppers, yellow squashes, and purple-black eggplants. Signs signaled "organic" or "sustainable" while others simply gave the name of the grower. The latter, I guess, for people who regard the aforementioned attributes as hooey.

Every Sunday there seems to be a customer who feels compelled to spew an opinion about a fruit or vegetable variety. "I prefer the Red Top over the SunCrest, don't you? The sugar-texture balance is beautiful. It's a good old-fashioned peach." What?Sometimes, the customer shares her experience baking a torte or cooking a Meatless Monday tagine with last week's bounty. Does anybody simply bake a pie or make succotash anymore? They say food is a conversation-starter but in so many of these exchanges, it's not a conversation at all. The customer puts on her expert face and talks at, not with, the farmer, the bonafide pro. I am always embarrassed by this and impressed with the farmer's composure. I do my part, though. I chime in with an audible sigh and an eye roll. 

The farmers market poseurs remind me of the wine snobs sputtering "chocolate notes," "cherry undertones," and "clearly a product of chalky soil" to (at) the guy at BevMo, when we all know they're drinking $12 wines at home like the rest of us peons. 

I guess people just like to be heard. But it would be nice if they listened, too. When I purchased the blueberries for these muffins, the farmer told me that tossing the berries in a bit of flour not only prevents them from sinking to the bottom but also helps prevent their blue juice from leaking into the batter. Bonus tip: use a recipe that calls for baking powder rather than baking soda as this will help keep the muffins from turning gray-blue, too. There's a scientific reason for the latter, something about proper PH balance. Maybe I'll look that up as I enjoy my blueberry muffin. Then again, maybe not. 

RECIPE

BLUEBERRY-RASPBERRY MUFFINS

These are straightforward, simple muffins and, at the peak of berry season, that's really all you need. Sprinkling the muffins with sugar prior to baking gives them a pleasant crunch. 

Makes 12 muffins

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
4 teaspoons baking powder
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs, beaten
1/3 cup butter, melted
3/4 cup whole milk
1 tablespoon finely grated lemon zest
1/2 cup raspberries
1/2 cup blueberries
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1/4 cup granulated sugar, for topping (optional)

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Grease the muffin cups with a little butter or cooking spray.

In a medium bowl, stir together the flour, salt, baking powder and sugar. In a small bowl, combine the eggs, butter, milk and lemon zest. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients, mixing until just moistened. 

Toss the berries in the flour to coat well. Add to the batter and stir until just combined. 

Divide the batter among the muffin cups, filling each about two-thirds full. Sprinkle with the sugar, if using. Bake until the tops are golden brown and a toothpick inserted into one of the center muffins comes out clean, about 20 to 25 minutes. 

Remove the muffins from the oven, loosen their edges from the pan, and let rest 5 minutes before transferring to a rack to cool.

MARCELLA MONDAY: TOMATOES STUFFED WITH TUNA, CAPERS, AND OLIVES

Ciao'd with a glass of iced elderflower tea.

Juicy, fresh, and full of flavor, tuna-stuffed tomatoes make a lovely first course for a summer dinner or a light lunch anytime. This recipe, based loosely on one by Marcella Hazan, combines albacore tuna with briny capers, salty black Kalamata olives, and a spike of spicy mustard in a sun-ripened whole tomato. 

Serves 6

6 large, ripe, round tomatoes
Salt
3 cans (5 ounces) tuna, packed in olive oil
1/3 cup homemade or best-quality prepared mayonnaise (or more to taste)
2 teaspoons spicy mustard such as Dijon
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons capers
2 tablespoons coarsely chopped black olives such as Kalamata
2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley plus more for garnish
Freshly ground black pepper

Slice off the tops of the tomatoes. Scoop out pulp and seeds, leaving a 1/2-inch shell. Salt lightly and invert the tomatoes on a platter so their liquid drains. 

Drain the tuna, allowing a tablespoon or two of the oil to remain with it. In a medium bowl, mash the tuna. Mix in the mayonnaise, mustard, and lemon juice. Add the capers, olives, and parsley and stir to combine. Season to taste with salt and pepper. 

Fill the tomatoes with the tuna mixture, mounding it at the top. Garnish with parsley leaves. Serve at room temperature or just slightly chilled. Based on a recipe from The Classic Italian Cookbook, Marcella Hazan, Ballantine Books, 1973.

MARCELLA MONDAY: ZUCCHINI, TOMATO, AND BASIL SAUCE

Ciao'd with the AC on full blast.

Two classic summer flavors, zucchini and tomato, pair together in this light, vibrant, quick-cooking sauce. Marcella Hazan suggests, "The taste comes through even more explicitly if you can obtain vine-ripened, fresh, firm tomatoes." And she shares another secret: "An important component of the light, bright flavor is the way the garlic is handled. It is sliced very thin and aside from a brief, preliminary contact with hot oil, it is simmered in the juices of the tomato so that what emerges of its aroma is the sweetness rather than the pungency."  While Marcella calls for scooping away the tomato seeds, I left most of them intact as I like the flavor the seeds impart.

Suggested pasta: Spaghetti or spaghettini

Enough sauce for 1 pound of pasta,
making 4 large or 6 small servings

4 to 6 medium zucchini, about 1 pound, trimmed
3 to 4 garlic cloves (enough to yield 2 tablespoons sliced garlic), peeled and sliced very, very thin
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 cups fresh ripe, firm tomatoes (about 4 whole), peeled and seeds scooped away*, chopped rather coarse OR drained canned Italian plum tomatoes, chopped rather coarse
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
A dozen basil leaves, cut into thin shreds

Cut the zucchini into fine julienne strips.

Put the garlic and olive oil in a skillet, turn on the heat to medium, and cook, stirring two or three times, just until the garlic becomes colored a very pale blond.

Add the chopped tomatoes, turn the heat up to high, and cook, stirring frequently, for about 10 minutes, or slightly longer if the tomato is watery.

Add the zucchini, salt, black pepper, and cook for 5 to 6 minutes, turning the ingredients over from time to time. The zucchini should be quite firm - al dente - but not raw. 

Cook and drain the pasta and toss it immediately and thoroughly with the sauce, mixing into it the basil shreds. Serve promptly. Marcella Cucina, Marcella Hazan, Harper Collins, 1997.

*How to peel and seed a tomato: Core the tomato. Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Drop the tomato into the boiling water (you can add several tomatoes at a time). Remove the tomato when the skin begins to peel, 15 to 30 seconds, and put in a blow of ice water to cool. The skin will slip off easily. Cut the tomato in half crosswise and scoop out the seeds.