there is always soup.

I have been known to eat around the white & hairy bits on a nub of cheddar.  I dunk wilted greens in icy water after picking off brown spots, hoping for a spark of new life.  In the summertime, the raspberry devotee in me has become expert at fishing out that one, offending, collapsed and mushy berry which, if not stopped in its (rotting) tracks, will contaminate the rest of the tiny plastic box.  I suppose there's a good reason raspberries come in such small containers in the first place.

And there is always soup.

Cauliflower with its green leaves gone all bendy?  Carrots beginning to shrivel into themselves?  A red pepper with spots of soft black?  Sad droopy celery?

With a bit of stock, an onion or leek or (in desperate times) some scallions, and a twist of salt and pepper these sad characters can be, and have been, transformed into spicy, velvety, hearty soups.

In our house growing up, there was (and is) always soup to be had.  Mum's freezer is stocked with soups from bright carrot and cumin to celery with its curiously creamy consistency to vibrant broccoli-- all perfect accompaniments to a slice of brown bread with Irish butter.  Although Mum never explicitly instructed each of us in how to make a delicious bowl of soup, we learned from the best.

During lunchtime today, as I sat at my desk with a bowl of broccoli leek soup in front of me (from my own, less well-stocked freezer), I came across a recipe for chilaquiles from the New York Times embedded within an article about "aged" ingredients versus "spoiled" ones.  The recipe is a good way to use up old tortillas but besides that, the article extols the virtues of learning how to use ingredients that may be past their conventional prime.  And I got a thrill reading it!

I love wandering the aisles of Whole Foods or Trader Joe's, particularly on payday, and walking to the subway with a grocery bag full of exciting, tasty, wholesome ingredients for that recipe I've had my eye on for a fortnight.  But this year, Kevin and I decided to take the plunge and commit to a CSA subscription for the spring & summer.  Today is the last day, but we will be back to pick up another box next week when the fall season commences.  The CSA has been challenging, exciting, but frankly quite stressful for a person like me, who gets an insane level of satisfaction out of using every single last leek and zucchini before going out for more.

But the challenge of getting creative with those wilty Tuesday evening stragglers has not been the only benefit.  While feeding ourselves healthier, veggie-heavy meals, we have been supporting local farms and learning just how long zucchini season goes on.  Plus, one of the owners of the local beer and cheese shop where we collect our weekly box uttered an uncharacteristically familiar, "Oh, yeah, that's right," last week when we gave our names.

I'm getting off track here, but the point is that my cooking has become more resourceful and meaningful in the past few months.  I take such pleasure in standing over a pot of soup, or keeping a watchful eye on a chicken roasting in the oven, but knowing that the meal I make has equal parts taste (of course), nutrition, skills learned from my mother, and interactions with communities nearby have made time in the kitchen all the more valuable.

Now, what's for dinner tonight?



Broccoli and Leek Soup

1 lb broccoli florets (our CSA notes described them as 'young broccoli' and I was expecting broccolini but what we ended up with looked totally like regular broccoli to me)
1 large leek
3 scallions (or whatever other members of the onion family you might have lying around)
Olive oil
3 cups low-sodium chicken stock
Salt
White pepper

Wash the leek really well and trim so the really yucky bits are gone.  Slice in half lengthwise and check to make sure all the sandy soil is washed away.  Chop into 1/2-inch pieces.  Chop up the usable parts of the scallions, which have undoubtedly been sitting in your fridge for far too long.

In a large pot, heat olive oil over medium heat.  Add leek/scallion mixture and cook until the leeks start to get soft and fragrant.

Meanwhile, chop broccoli florets (loose bits AND stems) into small pieces.  When leek is almost totally soft, add broccoli and do your best to mix it all up.  Sautéeing the vegetables before adding stock is key in the patented Deirdre Method of soup creation.

When broccoli and leek is nicely mixed up and broccoli is turning more vibrantly green, add the stock.  I probably should have added a bit more, as mine didn't totally cover the veg and the resulting soup was quite thick.  So if you like thinner soup, add more liquid.

Cover and simmer until vegetables are soft, about 20-25 minutes.  Blend with an immersion blender (also crucial for soup making, just trust me on this one) to desired thickness.  I added a bit of milk in at the end to thin my soup out.  Season with salt and plenty of white pepper.

I had some stale bread on the counter which I tossed around in a pan with garlic and pecorino to make croutons, which, served on top of the soup, really elevated an otherwise "green" tasting bowl.  So much for my pre-holiday no-carb diet!

not exactly according to plan.

As much as I love the internet, smartphones, all those other modern (in)conveniences-- I've always been a sucker for the pen and paper datebook.
From the moment my tiny all-girl high school issued each of us freshmen a bright yellow spiral-bound homework book stamped with the school seal, I've been keeping track of my days via "hard" calendar.
In college, I moved on to Quo Vadis planners, and even convinced my boyfriend at the time to buy one... only to pronounce my utter dismay at his lack of inked pages (he was a business student, after all).
I geeked out over planners, I'll admit.  And choosing one at the beginning of each year was what you might call A Process.  Do I really need a page per day?  Will I remember to tear off these perforated corners every day?  Should I just get a refill and use the same pleather cover?  Then the chosen calendar would arrive by mail and I would begin to fill its pages with homework assignments, paper deadlines, social "events" (KEGGER @ WEST CAMPUS!), and, on occasion, something with a bit more substance.
Because I am now an Adult, I've moved onto Moleskine notebooks (this is Brooklyn, after all).  When deciding between weekly versus daily pages back in December of last year, Kevin helpfully suggested a daily planner, as it might encourage me to jot down bits and pieces more often.  You see, I had planned to Write More in the new year, in an attempt to supplement the paperwork-filled days at my job with some creativity.
I wish I could say I have piles of draft posts just waiting to be published, but that would be a lie.  Judging by the date of the previous entry on this here blog, I have not done so well on the whole Writing More Thing.

I have, however, done quite well otherwise this year.  Brooklyn has really started to feel like a home.  I single-handedly installed my air conditioner in my third-storey window (I know!) when the oppressive city heat became too much to bear.  I turned 25 and decided it is a very good age to be.  I drank skippy with my college roommates, savored Dad's first mojito of the summer, tasted wine in Long Island with my best friend and our beaus, did picklebacks in a basement at a Cape Cod lake house, and shared probably far too many bottles of wine with Kevin over weekday meals.  I perfected my Caesar salad, and cooked roast chicken and mediterranean meatballs, blood orange olive oil cake and rhubarb crumb bars, sriracha-doused shrimp and fish tacos, and lots and lots of fried eggs.  On a few too many Sundays, I bought the Times and left unread sections all over my bedroom floor until I forced myself to get through them all.  I visited friends in DC and Philadelphia, and over Memorial Day weekend, I spent a night roaming the streets of San Juan with Betsy.

The coincidence and pure good fortune that afforded a reunion with B came to mind again when I checked her magnificent blog for updates and spotted some familiar scenes.  There they were: gorgeous photographs, and a link... to my blog.  My much-neglected, achingly-out-of-date blog.

So thanks, to Kevin for the daily Moleskine that provided the space to draft this post while hanging out in Park Slope tonight, and to B, for the gentle nudge.
There are good things to come.

it just keeps getting better.

Christmas was really nice this year.
It's hard to go wrong with New York at Christmastime, coming home to family & cats, a delicious dinner, and spending time in front of the fireplace every night, but for some reason, this year just really topped them all.  Kevin and I enjoyed soaking up all the city had to offer (and the inevitable crowds that go with it).  Gifts given and received were the most thoughtful yet, and from a dinner party on Christmas Eve Eve to leftovers days after Christmas, each meal had everybody in the kitchen and tasted better than the one before.  I was surprised actually; this time last year, I had just come home from South Africa and couldn't have imagined a nicer Christmas-- but this year really took the cake (and pie, and salted pistachio-white chocolate bark).
There was hot apple cider at the Columbus Circle market, the Rockefeller tree, watching skaters in Central Park, fat happy cats with ribbons round their necks, and oysters on Christmas Eve, and bottles of vino, and Skype chats with family across the sea, and wrapping paper, and pearls, and beautiful cookbooks, and ginger-lemon crème brûlée, and long walks, and morning lie-ins, and pomegranate seeds, and shopping trips, and a whole lot of laughter.

I'm resigned to making 2012 the year of self-improvement in all aspects, but I really can't complain about life now.  I feel so lucky to have made the move to Brooklyn, especially last night when my roommates and I hosted a hair of the dog potluck to ring in the new year.  Our apartment was cozy and warm, looked beautiful in the last light of the dried-out Christmas tree, and was full of friends old and new, sharing food and drinks.  This year ended on the really high note it's been carrying all along.

Cheers to 2012.

thankful.

This may be a little late, but I am thankful for:
lemons that have finally ripened, kir royale and surprise on-sale lace dresses, Scrabble with my sisters and their loves (and champagne), Moroccan carrot salad, comfortable love, cheap beer, new friends, a night drinking and laughing just like high school, and a day out getting fresh air, unexpected toad-in-the-hole, and a glass of white wine with my dear Mum.

joyeux anniversaire

One's younger sister only turns 21 once in her life, and there are only so many times a number of one's college friends can gather together in the same city.  Thus, I spent the weekend at Villanova, my alma mater, for some good ol' (disappointing) college basketball, quality time with old friends, and birthday celebrations.
I coerced my friend Diana to drive up the dreaded PA Turnpike with me late Friday night, and we arrived on campus just in time for a French-themed fête at Niamh's apartment, where red lipstick, cheap wine, and striped apparel abounded.
Saturday morning took us bright and early to the Wells-Fargo Center, where after some raucous tailgating and joyous reunions, we watched Villanova lose to Georgetown in quite a nail-biter of a second half.  Oh well.  After snacks and lots of lounging, our stamina failed us and we ended up choosing bedtime over bars.  Typical postgraduate behavior.
We spent Sunday morning eating sandwiches and getting caffeinated at Milkboy Coffee in Ardmore, an excellent haunt where I spent many a long thesis-writing weekend as an undergrad.  When our drinks were finished, we ran around campus in the winter sunshine, reminiscing and trying not to look too out of place-- next time, we'll bring backpacks.  After saying goodbye to friends, Niamh and I got ready to meet our parents and little sister for dinner at Sangkee Bistro in Wynnewood, where we ate lots of delicious Asian seafood, showered Niamh with birthday love, and laughed at our waiter's ridiculous antics.  And then, after the family had gone home, there was a trip to the bars for a celebratory drink (or four) come midnight.
On Monday, I walked back to campus to meet up with two of my former professors.  Though reminiscing about college life with my friends on Sunday left me feeling a bit bereft, the strange feelings lessened come Monday, and I felt as though I could have sat there, drinking coffee and talking for hours.
Confession: I not-so-secretly long to have the life of an academic.

I left campus and drove home with the Arcade Fire blasting, the window down (halfway), and feeling very positive about life.  It was so nice to sit down and instead of discussing philosophy paper deadlines or conjugating the ever-elusive subjonctif, we could swap book titles (and actual books), chat about interesting movies, and catch up on life in general.  It was very nice indeed.
Optimism continues to prevail and I feel quite confident that whatever direction my life is due to take in the next few months, I will still have some really great relationships with my family, old friends, and other acquaintances I can count on for intelligent conversation, movie recommendations, and des spectacles (merci, SW).

And now, some photos:

Post-script:  I baked the Avoca Cafe chocolate orange cake for Niamh's birthday.  Recipe to follow.



.

ode to sundays.

A while back, my dear friend (and fellow redhead) Colleen wrote an ode-- specifically, an ode lauding the merits of front porches in her hometown.  She suggested that some other bloggers out there might be similarly inspired to write such a post, and now, much later than I care to admit, I've decided to write my own ode: an ode to Sundays.

I hated Sundays growing up.  Even throughout four years of college, Sundays were a reminder of the week that followed.  They meant homework that I'd put off all weekend, an hour of being bored at church, shifts at Barnes & Noble Café during high school, and in college, laundry and other chores that would bite me in the butt come Sunday night.  A good friend once referred to the dreaded day as being like, "the last meal before an execution," and, for a long time, I took that comparison to heart.  Even when Mondays were occasional holidays, Sundays were always my least favorite day of the week.

But all that changed after my move back home following graduation.

Now, on Sundays, I sleep late-- but if the sun looks particularly nice, I might go for a brisk run around the neighborhoods, happily aware that the benefits of my exercise will be counteracted by Dad's crepes or Mum's lemon muffins or croissants from our local grocery store.  If the warmth of my bed wins over motivation for exercise, I'm usually woken by the sound of the coffee grinder, and thoughts of steaming hot cups of dark coffee diluted with skim milk.

After a late breakfast, I spend the day finishing a couple of chapters in that book next to my bed, or finishing a blog post I'd meant to get around to all week.  My little sister Megan does homework (though the Top 40 Hits blaring out of her stereo would suggest otherwise) and a good portion of time is spent convincing Mum that she's not texting, she swears.

On some Sundays, my sisters and I are reunited for a short while, because Niamh makes the trek home from college with laundry in hand, craving a good meal and the familiar comfort of her own bed.

In the warmer months, Mum and Dad would have been out in the garden long before my sisters and I get out of bed.  After breakfast, they'd go back to it, and whenever I see them out there, I make a silent promise to one day spend some time pondering horticulture as a hobby too.  Now that it's chilly, Dad might venture out to break up the old trees that fell during summer thunderstorms, and chop them into firewood.  Mum catches up on emails, occasionally letting out an excited yell when a potential houseguest to our French cottage drops her a line.  She catches up on her reading for one of her two book groups, and then it's into the kitchen, where she (and Dad, more and more these days), spends some time figuring out what we can eat for our early Sunday meal out of what's in the fridge.

I peek my head in from time to time, sometimes offer to make a salad dressing or dessert, but usually happy to be assigned the already carefully planned tasks that Mum's worked out.  Her timing is impeccable; with Megan due at youth band rehearsal at 5, dinner's always on the table around 4.  Sometimes Dad and Meg make homemade pasta, cranking out perfectly shaped strips of yellowish dough, while Mum roasts vegetables or simmers a sauce that goes perfectly with the fish Dad caught on his most recent fishing trip.  I'm never shy to get the cheese out before we sit down to dinner, so that it's ready to eat after the plates have been cleared away and before Megan jets off to practice.

Then, before we eat, we hold hands and for a brief moment, every week,  we say grace together.  We each take a turn wishing blessings on the family member seated next to us, and for that one moment, all is quiet around us.  It's the perfect meditation that lasts all week long.  Though we trundle off to Mass after dinner, the short grace that we say before our Sunday meal is one of the most sacred moments of my week.

At Mass, we sing along with Megan and the youth band.  Mum says her prayers the Irish way, and I secretly love to hear her do so-- it's a reminder of the family across the ocean who have also attended Mass that same day.  Dad never applauds the occasional speaker after Communion, and Niamh and I sometimes revert back to childhood and attempt to outsqueeze each other's hands during the Our Father.  For a sacrament so full of tradition and meditation, it's the routine of being there with my family that I appreciate most.

After coming home, we change back into the yoga pants and sweatshirts we'd worn before church and boil the kettle to fill the teapot.  Teabags are a prized possession in our house; they're the only thing we insist on smuggling back to the US after a trip back to Ireland.  The tea is made with precision, and after dessert, Meg goes back to her books and Niamh settles in for an early night before her drive back to school on Monday morning.  Dad goes upstairs to check his email, and then reads his book before going to sleep, and downstairs, in the living room, Mum and I take up residence on the couch with the cats to watch our one televised indulgence of the week.  After a short debriefing of the episode and complaints about the inevitably unimportant local news at 11, we, too, make our way to bed.

 In reflecting on the Sundays I've come to cherish since moving home, I've decided that my enjoyment of them has been affected by the lack of schoolwork I've reveled in since graduation.  But, more importantly, I love Sundays because they have come to be the nucleus of my family's week.  On Sundays, we take the time to be with each other.  We're busy people, especially now that my sisters and I are grown, and we have lots of commitments that get in the way of quality time spent with each other.  But on Sundays, when we sit around the table, or together at church, or even watching TV, there's a different feeling of togetherness than on other days.

And that's why, on this last Sunday with my family for a whole year, I'm quite sad to reflect on how much I enjoy them.  It's hard thinking about my new life without my family in it, and I think that Sundays will be especially tough.  But there are things that I can do-- like going to Mass or cooking a meal at home-- that will remind me of the peace I've enjoyed on Sundays with my family.

what a year for a new year.

I really loved 2009.
No, like, really.

In January, I started off the year sipping cocktails with my best girlfriends from high school, started the last semester of my undergraduate career at Villanova, and joined thousands of people in Washington, D.C. to witness President Obama's inauguration.

In February, I celebrated my 22nd birthday, cheered on Villanova as they made their way towards the NCAA championships, and crossed my fingers as I sent in my application to my volunteer program.

In March, I got to be Ashley's date to NYU's Violet Ball, drank a pint of Guinness before 11 am on St. Patrick's Day, spent my entire spring break writing the final draft of my senior thesis, and drove out to Detroit with my roommates to watch Villanova in the Final Four.

In April, I attended my final classes as a college student, shut myself up in the library as I finished my thesis, and found out that I'd been accepted as an Augustinian Volunteer in the South Africa program.

In May, I celebrated the end of classes, spent senior week in a celebratory haze with my best friends, graduated magna cum laude from Villanova, celebrated some more, and moved out of the poor excuse for a house that myself and seven other girls came to cherish... and back home.

In June, I spent ten days eating feta, drinking Mythos, and soaking up the sun in Greece with my best friends from high school; visited family & spent Bloomsday in a very Joycean fashion in Dublin; and returned to France for market-fresh dinners on the patio, bike rides among the sunflower fields, and some Parisian joie de vivre.

In July, I was reunited with some college friends for apple pie & beer on the 3rd of July, and quit selling books in favor of three very random weeks working at a summer camp in northern New Jersey (and would not have traded it for the world).

In August, I drove to Newport, RI with Colleen & Wil for a very flannel & beardy weekend at the Newport Folk Festival, spent a week getting oriented with my fellow Augustinian Volunteers and community members going to South Africa, and started my job at ADROP in Philadelphia.

In September & October, I came to accept the fact that my life no longer runs on a semesterly schedule and sank my teeth into some really good reading (for pleasure!).

In November, I spent a weekend in New York City and got to see Amy Poehler and Rachel Dratch in a show at UCB, then flew across the country with Colleen to whet our west coast appetites visiting Becky in San Francisco.

And in December, I finished out my time at ADROP, ate huge Christmas meals until I was fit to burst, enjoyed a very beautiful snowfall, and began to make preparations for my trip to South Africa in just one week's time.

What an amazing year. Though I think New Year's Eve can be a bit overhyped, I must say that today, going into 2010, I feel so blessed to be where I am. I'm surrounded by people I love, with a fulfilling decade behind me and a new adventure about to begin.
Here's to you, 2010.