All Is Safe and Sound Chicken

The warm smells from dinner still lingered in the house. Smells from perhaps a "fall off the bone" tender beef stew, maybe chicken and dumplings or my mother's delicious chicken and wild rice soup with her homemade dill bread. The dishwasher was humming. The voices from the TV were soft. Distant. I made my way down the long, darkened hallway toward the single glowing lamp above the piano. I sat down on the bench, sighed and pushed up the lid to reveal the keys.

I opened my book and searched for Mr. Burke's distinct, purposeful handwriting that marked this week's assignment. As I reluctantly placed the correct song against the stand, my father quietly slipped into the living room and took up his place in his favorite chair. With his feet up, his hands clasped over his chest and his eyes closed, he would say to me, "I love to listen to you play." And there, he patiently sat. Sat while I banged out songs like "Candy Man" and "You're a Grand Old Flag" or the occasional "Für Elise." He sat there during the weeks when I threw myself down on the bench in tears claiming that, "I will not practice the piano tonight!" He quietly waited as I pulled myself together, wiped the tears and began again with the "Blue Danube."

And now, when I look back, I'm so grateful for those practice sessions. The smells. The darkness. The hushed tones. My father's presence. The sound of the piano. I felt safe. Even knowing that my father may be leaving soon, to stand guard at some far flung destination in the world...still, I felt safe.

That same piano sits in the living room of my home. The one my mother was determined her children would play. The one that my parents had to carry up a winding path. The one with the salamander burned into the wood, just behind the stand.

And, in the deep fall, when the kitchen has been put away, the dishwasher is humming and the baby has been put to bed, I'll pass that piano and something will pull me over to it. Whether it's the smells from our dinner of chicken sautéed with garlic and tomatoes, the early darkness of the evening or knowing that the eldest children are in their rooms reading and I, for a minute, have no one needing me, I will flick on the lamp, pull out the bench, put up the familiar music and start to play. My fingers will trip over themselves at first. Out of practice since the piano tends to sit unused for all of spring and summer. But, soon, they will remember the way and I will play, song after song. From Winter Peace to Thanksgiving to Jessica's Theme. I will play. I will be lost in the music and I will feel safe. At this moment, in this place in the world, we are all here in this home, enveloped by the smells and the darkness and we are safe.

Then, whether it be a sixth sense or mother's intuition, I will feel a presence with me while I play. Something will cause me to stop and look. There, in the semi-darkness of the stairwell, are my eldest children. Jammies on, peering through the railings and quietly listening to me play. And, there, in the darkness of the kitchen, I can just make out the shape of my sweetie.

All Is Safe and Sound Chicken

(Inspired by Caroline Conran's Poulet À La Provencal)

8 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs, or 4 thighs and 2 bone-in, skin-on chicken breasts or 4 chicken breasts

2 tbls olive oil

1 tbls butter

3 large shallots, coarsely chopped

2-4 cloves garlic, sliced lengthwise

6 ripe sm-med sized, tomatoes, cut in half

4 sprigs fresh thyme, coarsely chopped or a pinch or two of dried

salt and pepper to taste

For this recipe, I like to use a Le Creuset type of pot. Begin by seasoning your chicken pieces with salt and pepper. In our household, I'm a bit of a short order cook based on the type of chicken people like. Some want dark meat, some want white. Whatever mix of pieces you use, just make sure they are bone-in, skin-on. The meat will be much more flavorful and tender than boneless, skinless and you can always pick off the skin once it is cooked. Next, heat/melt the olive oil and butter in your pot. Add the chicken pieces to the pot and cook them on all sides until they are lightly browned. Add the shallots and the garlic and lightly brown them also, but do not let them burn.

Next, take your tomato halves, squeeze out most of their seeds and some of their liquid. Coarsely chop them and add them to your pot along with the thyme and salt and pepper to taste. One note: should you not be able to find decent tomatoes this time of year, a 15-oz can of drained, diced tomatoes would work as well. Cover the pot and cook, turning the chicken from time to time, for 15-20 minutes or until the meat is cooked through. Smell and enjoy the aromas that will linger in your home the night through.

I like to serve this with couscous and steamed green beans or broccoli. Or, instead of dirtying another pot, you could just cut up some in-season pears or apples, and call it good. Make sure not to let any of the delicious "sauce" go to waste. Spoon that on top of your couscous. Heaven.

Happy Thanksgiving, my dear friends!

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Skippin' Down the Trail Oatmeal Cookies

Remember when you could run with wild abandon down the trail and your only concern was whether or not you might slip on the gravel under foot?

Although, perhaps that hadn't even entered your mind but was simply the worry of the mother watching from behind. The mother torn between the image of you there, running, without a care in the world and bracing herself for the wipe-out she is sure will come.

And so, run, hop, skip you do. The wind blowing against your face. The fallen leaves crackling under your feet. Gravity spinning your little legs faster and faster. You turn back to the mother still taking it all in. "Come on, Mom!" you holler. "I'm beating you." And, the mother simply smiles.

You turn off the main trail and make one final push up the ever narrowing path to emerge at your big brother's school. The brother you've been patiently waiting for all day. Waiting to play with him. To talk to him. To simply be next to him. And before you even have a chance to set foot on the actual school grounds, you discover that big brother has already made it to the entrance of the path. In a blur, he blows right past you. "Wait for me!" you holler as you spin around as quickly possible.

Down below, big brother has already jumped onto the main trail and in big brother fashion declares, "I won!" You power down the path, hoping desperately to catch up with him, crying out, "No, you didn't. It's not a race. Hey, wait for me!"

Once on the main trail, big brother has slowed down, allowing you to catch up. He puts his arm around you.

You prepare yourself for the brotherly hug that you're sure is about to come, when he leans over and gives you an affectionate noogie on the head instead.

For the remainder of the walk home, you are absorbed in all that is your big brother. You scamper down the steep hills with him. You toss a rock in the creek, when he tosses a rock in the creek. You try to stay with him as he hops up the stairs. You let him hold your hand and guide you safely across the street. You are grateful when he slows down his gait to stay with you as your smaller legs become weary. You ask him question after question of all that is on your mind and he patiently answers each and every one.

As you near the front door, a faint whiff of cinnamon and toasted nuts, reminds you to turn and look at the mother, still watching from behind. With a melt-your-heart grin, you earnestly call out to your brother, "Hey, guess what Mom made for snack?" "What?" "Cookies." "No way! Awesome!"

You and your brother, push your way through the barely opened door, toss off your shoes and race to the cooling cookies. Trying to civilize you, the mother from "behind", beckons you over to the table, puts your cookies on a plate and, trying to ward off the chill from this blustery weather, places down a mug of hot apple cider in front of you. You glance up to say, "Thank you" and then, your attention turns back to your big brother who continues to answer all of the questions you had saved up all day...just for him.

Skippin' Down the Trail Oatmeal Cookies

I have been starting to play around with whole wheat pastry flour and with fall firmly upon us, I have been craving oatmeal cookies. So, using the original Quaker Oats Oatmeal Raisin Cookie recipe, I came up with this version...which my children inhaled and paid no heed to the healthy stuff lurking inside.

1 c butter, softened (2 sticks)

3/4 c firmly packed brown sugar

1/2 c granulated sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1 1/2 c whole wheat pastry flour such as Bob's Red Mill

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt (optional)

3 c old-fashioned rolled oats

1 c raisins

1 c walnuts

1/4 c unsweetened, shredded coconut

Heat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium bowl, stir together flour, baking soda, cinnamon and salt. Set aside.

In a large bowl, beat together butter and sugars until creamy. Add eggs and vanilla, beat well. Add the flour mixture and stir just until combined. With a wooden spoon, stir in oats, raisins, walnuts and coconut until incorporated.

Drop by rounded tablespoons onto an ungreased cookie sheet.

Bake for 10 to 12 minutes or until golden brown.

Cool 1 minute on cookie sheet; remove to wire rack.

Yield: About 3 dozen.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Pork Loin and Cannellini Beans

We had just closed the chapter on the 2009 fall sports season. Nana and Papa had already headed back up the I-5 corridor after kindly attending yet another sporting event. I had in the car with me, my chickens plus one cousin. They were unusually quiet and with the sun beaming in at just the right angle, I was feeling sleepy. Well, alright, more than sleepy. As in having to slap myself on the cheeks and roll down the window to keep from falling asleep at the wheel kind of sleepy. (But, shhh, don't tell my sister. Her child was perfectly safe.)

We pulled into the driveway and I instructed the troops to enter the house very, very quietly seeing as the youngest cousin of all was sure to still be napping. As predicted, the house was silent and my sister was curled up reading a book. Ahhh...if only it could last. Soon, it was as if we had opened the gate to the hen house and all of the chickens were running around frenzied in the yard. The littlest cousin was up at this point, adding his squawking to the mix and all was as it should be. And then...I did something. Something that can only be done in the presence of one's sister.

I curled myself up on the couch in the middle of the chicken fest. Me and the cat. And, I went to sleep. Right there. Out. Hard. No thoughts of being any kind of hostess to my guests...blood relatives or not. Only thoughts of sleep. And sleep I did. I was later told that I unbelievably slept through the 18-month old composing his 1st symphony on the piano, teen nick shows playing loudly in the living room, all sorts of car, train and lightsaber sound effects being blasted away at full volume and any number of plastic ride-on cars and grocery carts being zoomed past me.

When I, the sleeping princess, finally awoke, I couldn't believe the time. Had I really slept that long? For crying out loud, it was time to make dinner. In my groggy state, I went to the cupboard to pull out the supplies for my pre-planned meal only to discover that I had failed to purchase the main ingredient. Now, what? I had a house full of hungry beings and time was tick, tick, tickin' away. I couldn't do pizza....again. I decided to get creative. Sometimes a good thing...sometimes not. I had whipped up a delicious tomato and shallot pasta sauce a few weeks ago (Have you figured out that I have a thing for tomatoes and shallots?) and since I still had some tomatoes from the little garden that could I thought I'd try that again. But then, I started to stray from the tried and true. I decided to peel the tomatoes. Why? I've never bothered to do that before. And then, I added a chopped up red pepper. Why? I know full well that if you add red pepper to a sauce without another strong ingredient to balance it out such as sausage...well, it's just too strong for our likin'. I looked at my paltry sauce and started to panic that there wasn't enough so I grabbed a jar of Dave's Gourmet Pasta Sauce from Costco. And, poured half in. Why? In the meantime, I sauteed up some shitake mushrooms hanging out in the back of the produce drawer, cut up some apples and declared dinner served. I also made sure to slap down a wedge of parmesan cheese. Parmesan cheese generously grated over anything makes it taste better.

We put the chickens at their own table and my sister and I sat down at the dining room table with my slapstick meal and a glass of wine. I don't recall that my sweetie was with us. I think he may have been hiding. She and I took a deep breath, clinked out glasses and then, talked about friendships, about writing, about life. We discussed the merits of Seinfeld's "Good Naked vs Bad Naked" theory since she had earlier walked in on the baby who appeared to be "diggin' for grubs" while wearing his birthday suit. We talked about religion, about world peace, about working in and out of the home. She shared with me a trick for getting rid of fruit flies. "Set a little ramekin of red wine on the counter with a few drop of dish soap in there. Come morning, your problem will be greatly improved." We talked about raising children, teaching children, feeding children. We shared recipes. Thoughts on nutrition. Recent successes in the kitchen. We were able to relax and just be with each other. To realize that it doesn't always have to be about the food (or the hostessing). More often than not, it's the company that matters most.

The following evening, my sister and her little band of boys had long since disappeared up the I-5 corridor. I was at my computer checking my calendar and email. What did the following week have in store for me? At the top of the list of unread emails was one, already, from my sister. A recipe for Pork Loin and Cannellini Beans. I smiled. Grateful to have that recipe since I was out of dinner ideas and grateful to have shared my weekend with her.

Slow Cooker Pork Loin and Cannellini Beans

Now, that you know, dear friend, that I am "morning-challenged", slow-cooker recipes aren't usually my thing. They require someone who is up and at 'em, fully conscious, organized in the wee hours and well, that's just not me but since this recipe required only 5-6 hours of cooking as opposed to the requisite 8, I was able to pull it off. I happened to serve it over brown rice but quinoa would be equally as good. My sister says that on night two, she wraps the leftovers up into tortillas and serves pork burritos for dinner.

2 tsp Herbes de Provence or 1 tsp ea dried sage and rosemary

2 garlic cloves

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp black pepper

2.5 lbs pork tenderloin

4 tbls extra-virgin olive oil

1 onion, chopped

1 c. white wine

2 cans (14.5 oz ea) cannellini beans

1 can (14.5 oz) fire roasted diced tomatoes

1/4 c chopped sage

1 tsp chopped fresh rosemary

1/4 c. parsley leaves

2 tbls toasted pine nuts (optional)

Rub dried herbs, half the garlic, salt and the pepper over the pork.

Heat half the oil in a skillet over medium-high heat; brown pork all over, about 8 min. Place in slow cooker.

Cook onion in skillet over med heat 3 minutes. Increase heat to med-high. Add wine; boil 7 minutes. Drain and rinse beans; stir into skillet with tomatoes. Simmer 12 minutes.

In food processor, finely chop remaining garlic, 2 tbls oil, fresh sage, rosemary, parsley and pine nuts. Stir half into tomato mixture, then pour over pork. Cover; cook on LOW for 5 to 6 hours or until pork is tender.

Remove pork. Turn slow cooker to HIGH; stir in remaining herb mixture to heat. Serve with pork.

Yield: Plenty for 5 people with leftovers to enjoy the next evening or to place in a ziploc and freeze to enjoy in the weeks to come.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

"Rustic" Pear Tart

I'm not ashamed to admit that when the 10-year old's coach suggested that we get his wrist checked out, my first thought was not the welfare of my child, but the fact that this checking out would occur on my one free day. Well, one of two free days. Those precious days during the week when all the chickens have flown the coop and the house is silent. Could it really be that bad? I know he's been cradling the wounded wrist in the palm of his other hand like a fragile bird for two days now, but come on...does this really warrant a trip to the doctor's office? Which will then result in a trip to the radiologist? Which will take up the whole day?

I picked him up from school mid-morning and we headed down the windy road through Forest Park. He was giddy. Like he'd just drawn a "Get Out of School FREE" card. After checking in, we tried to quarantine ourselves in the corner of the waiting room wishing we'd brought face masks to guard ourselves against the big, bad swine flu viruses floating around the room. He asked me, "Do I have to go back to school after this?"

"If this is it, yes. If you end up getting x-rays, no. There won't be enough time."

As we made our way out of the building with his x-ray slip in hand, I could tell that my 10-year old was resisting the urge to skip.

I find that I have the opportunity to spend time alone with my daughter, as well as the baby, but this guy...well, it always seems I'm with him...and someone else. As we crunched our way down the leaf strewn sidewalks of northwest Portland toward the radiologist, I found myself putting my arm around him. Tussling his hair. All of which he tolerated for approximately 10 seconds before pulling away. But still...

There wasn't time to get him back to school after the x-rays were successfully taken; however, we still had a bit of time before my other chickens would be headed home. There was, in fact, something I'd been wanting to talk to him about and now that I had him all to myself, I suggested, "Let's go up to Pittock Mansion and take a quick look around. It's such a beautiful day. The mountains are probably out and you can name all of the bridges for me." (Naming the Portland Bridges is quite the badge of honor around our household...it's the little things in life.)

As we walked around the grounds, taking in the splendor of the late fall beauty and looking off at Mt. Hood in the distance, I draped my arm around his shoulders and said, "So, I've been wanting to talk to you about something. Something really serious. Something I can only talk to you about now that you're 10."

I had been trying to set the mood for this by taking some pensive pictures of him.

But he would have none of that.

So, I just came right out with it and as I spoke, I could see him tense and the gears of his mind working backwards trying to recall any little clue as to what this could be about. "I heard you and your sister talking the other day about....pause...Santa Claus. About how you know it's just Mom and Dad."

He immediately fired back with, "What?? Mom?? Ahhh. I don't want you to tell me that."

"But," I stammered. "I heard you two talking. You know. I heard you say you figured it out because Dad bought something when you were at Target with him and then it showed up under the tree 'From Santa'."

"Yeah, I know, but I don't want you to tell me."

"Well, sweetie, now that you know, I need to talk to you about it. You have a very important job to do now that you know the truth."

"What?"

"You need to keep the secret. You cannot ruin it for your little brother. When he's your age he will figure it out on his own but for now, you have to keep the secret going."

There's no lack of the older brother taunting the younger brother with his superior intellectual knowledge and I didn't want the secret of Santa Claus to be the fall-out victim in this show of superiority. We continued to chat about it. About comments his friends had made regarding the jolly old man. About the importance of honoring the younger sibling's right to be...young. About other clues that led to the discovery.

"Like last year, there was a 50% off tag on my General Grievous lego set."

We had finished our rounds up at the mansion. It was time to be heading home. He seemed satisfied with our chat. Satisfied to know that he had an important job to do as keeper of the secret.

On the way home, I realized I had failed to take him on the requisite "after the doctor's office" trip to the ice cream store so I did a mental inventory of ingredients I had at home that would fill this oversight.

As I laid his "fresh from the oven" pear tart in front of him, he slowly looked up at me. One of those furrowed brow, pensive looks and says, "So, Mom?"

Pauses a brief second, and then comes out with it, "So, Mom, who's the Easter Bunny?"

"Rustic" Pear Tart

Here we are in the depths of pear season - "Comice Pear. How I love thee!" - and while I prefer to just keep my pears in a paper bag on the counter, slice them up when they are barely soft to the touch and then, pop those slices in my mouth...if I want to mix it up a bit, I turn to this recipe. Fast. Easy. Looks like you went to a lot of work when really all you did was roll out some pre-made dough and slap some pear slices on it. Yum.

1 sheet, frozen puff pastry, thawed

2 or 3 firm-ripe pears, such as Bosc or Comice

About 2 tbls turbinado sugar, sugar in the raw, or regular, granulated sugar

A few pinches of cinnamon

1 large egg, beaten to blend

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Lightly butter 2 large baking sheets. I suppose you could put down parchment paper here if you are butter-averse. On a floured surface with a floured rolling pin, roll out pastry to 16 by 18 in. Cut pastry in thirds one-way and in half the other. Basically, divide your dough up into 6 equal parts. With a wide spatula (or your fingers), transfer the 6 rectangles to the baking sheets.

Core pears and cut into thin wedges. Arrange, slightly overlapping, on pastry rectangles, leaving approximately a 1-inch border bare (angle slices if necessary). Fold border over edge of pears, stretching slightly and pressing down to hold. (Remember this is a "rustic" tart. No need for perfection.) Brush new edges with egg, then sprinkle turbinado sugar over tarts, especially pastry edges. Then, sprinkle a pinch or two of cinnamon over the pears.

Bake until pastries are richly browned, 25 to 30 minutes. Serve tarts warm from the oven. (Although, straight from the fridge the next morning isn't bad either.) These tarts don't need much of an accompaniment but if you must, "a scoop of vanilla ice cream never hurt anything", as my father always says. Well, "vanilla ice cream and mayonnaise" that is.

Yield: 6 tarts

PS: In case you were wondering, it turned out to be a sprain.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Portland Food Carts: Savor Soup House

Once every six weeks or so, I enter “La Salon” and I emerge…drum roll, please…The Breck Shampoo girl. Silky, smooth, flip through the air hair. Fan anyone? All the days in between, I prefer the air-dry method for my crazy, curly hair that can only be tamed with a hair band – in other words, I, yikes, tend to leave the house with wet hair. Every mother’s nightmare which I can attest to seeing as when on the very rare occasion that my own daughter leaves with wet hair I cringe and yet, here I am, a grown woman doing it more often than she. (And, in case you were wondering if this is a genetically passed down defect…no. My own mother never looks anything but beautifully put together at all moments of every day and she has never…I repeat NEVER...left the house with wet hair or without her lipstick on. My sister can back me up on this one.)

To my good fortune, once I emerge from “La Salon”, I am but a few, hair-flipping steps away from the Portland Food Carts at Southwest 10th and Alder. Those food carts that have created quite the buzz around town. What Karen Brooks of The Oregonian calls, “[Those] block-long shantytowns that are the food courts of the future.” And she goes on to further report that there are 450 of them around town with 32 more under review. My, my! I find them intriguing. I’ll eat almost anything…but my family won’t…so I look at those food carts as a chance for me to enlighten my taste buds without the accompanied whining from the boys and without having to pay a babysitter. And, what’s more, I have wanted to set a goal for myself to try each one but in years past, my trip to “La Salon” never coincided with enough time but now, new school year, new schedule…new goal.

In all my sassiness, I practically skipped the half block to my destination. And, what could only make a good hair day better, was the gentle breeze about, swirling up the crispy, yellow maple leaves. The air was warm – 65 degrees warm - and the sun was set in the sky at just the right angle to render a glistening effect on everything it touched. A perfect fall day in Portland. I didn’t make it far into the “shantytown” as first on my list to try was “Savor Soup House” which managed to snag a perfect bit of real estate right on the corner. I love soup. I’m drawn to places serving soup and so…soup it was.

While I waited…and waited….and waited…for my turn (good things come to those who wait, right?)…I struggled with whether to try the Potato Leek Soup topped with fried leeks or the Red Lentil Stew with butternut squash and saffron topped with peanuts and cilantro and served over brown rice. And not to mention, the menu for the “Grilled Cheese Bar – Create Your Masterpiece!” looked particularly tantalizing as well. I also wondered where I would sit once I had my soup. I noticed that some tables had signs with proprietorship designated on them and some did not. A Portlander at the single table for “Savor Soup House” graciously offered to share hers with a young couple with a delightful drawl to their speech and their 3-year old son with his new “Artoo Potatoo” in hand. Still waiting, I watched as an older gentleman in rolled up army fatigue pants pushed his bike along the sidewalk. A dog carrier attached to the back and a shih tzu curled up in a basket attached to the front. From the west of me drifted the sounds of the Clan Macleay Pipe Band and from the east, a solo, electric guitar sending out hits from the 70s – Stairway to Heaven, Into the Mystic, Old Man. And, occasionally, a car alarm would go off and take center stage.

My turn, at last. I chose the Lentil Stew since it was the special of the day. I figured I could have the Potato Leek anytime. I gratefully took my bundle of soup and bread from the one-woman show and set off to find a place to sit and enjoy my meal. Passing the tables clearly marked with ownership, I sat down at what appeared to be a free table. No sooner had I planted my bahookie than a woman waving a dishrag came flying out of the Snow White Crepe Cart shooing me away from my location like a mouse in the kitchen. Note to self: Table proprietorship is very strict here in the Portland Food Carts. I finally saddled up to a “street lighting” box, used it as a table and set out my meal. And, although, my soup was less than piping hot at this point, I still enjoyed every mouthful of butternut squash mingled with the lentils, chopped peanuts, cilantro and rice. I breathed deeply. I looked up and marveled at the way the light, the buildings and the trees created such a dazzling spectacle. I noticed that the man with the shih tzu was sitting at the table from where I had been shooed, eating a crepe. A couple high on something more than life added their color to the picture and the battle of the bands continued in the background as I devoured every scrumptious mouthful.

Without glancing at a watch (since I don’t actually wear one seeing as that they are all in my watch graveyard with dead batteries,) I could tell that my carriage was just about to turn into a pumpkin. School would be out soon and some little ones would be waiting for me. I tossed my empty bowl in the can and began making my way out of the food cart village. I read through the signs of establishments that may become future dining experiences. And then, me and my “sassy hair blowing in the wind” headed back up the street, past the Macleay Pipe Band, to the car and back home.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009

Peas and Pancetta in a Flash

So, it had been one of those weeks. You know the kind. The kind where the baby, trying to make use of his limited vocabulary, hollers at his older brother in peak frustration, “Just…just…just go put your head in the potty!” and then storms out of the room, leaving the 10-year old to shrug his shoulders and mutter, “Good dis, pal…real good dis.”

The kind of week where in the middle of the costume store, not but 24-hours before the big day, you have to inform your eldest son that no, you weren’t kidding when you told him he couldn’t get the mask with the blood pumping through it because you find that there is something inherently wrong with it. “But, Mom, all my friends have that mask. It’s so cool.” “Well, then, I guess you’ll be something original.”

The kind of week where your daughter has seconds to spare if she’s going to make the bus and you have but seconds to spare to make it to your godforsaken annual doctor’s appointment and she flies down the stairs headed for the front door wearing a masterpiece of fashion know-how that clearly took hours to put together, and you can’t help it. You even try to stop yourself because it’s just so…so…textbook but somehow you hear yourself saying, “Wait a minute, sweetie. You can’t wear that to school. Your skirt is too short.” And she looks at you, aghast, and replies, “But, Mom, everyone wears skirts like this.” And you know that you have truly been anointed a mother when you hear yourself say to her in return, “Well, not you. Go change and make it quick.”

The kind of week that found your sweetie trying to save his favorite chair at three in the morning from the cat who sat poised on it ready to cough up not just a hairball but what appeared to be his entire innards

The kind of week where you begin to wonder if you are stuck in a remake of Groundhog Day since every time you look around you find yourself in your car. “Here I am driving.” “Here I am, still driving.” “Wasn’t I just driving?” “Gads, I’m gripping this steering wheel again.” “Somebody help me. I’m driving again.” “I’m driving again and this same dang song keeps playing every time I’m in here.” “Ahhrrrgh….somebody save me from this car!” And you find yourself wanting to pull over to the side of the road and huck the CD with the song that you used to love on it, but now can’t stand, into the bushes.

And then, without warning, you come upon it. This little bit of frozen time. Where the road behind you has slipped away beyond the bend and the road in front of you is hidden by the horizon and there you are, fully in the moment. All thoughts of masks and skirts and heads in potties and what’s for dinner disappear and you are taken aback by the way the sun filters through the leaves. The way the branches arch over the road so you and your car feel as though you’re slipping through an arbor. An arbor leading somewhere magical. And then, just as quickly as you came upon it, the moment is gone and your mind fills back up with the static humming of life’s busyness. But, in that moment, your mind was able to clear a tiny spot. A tiny spot to remind you to breathe, to slow down over the bumps and that Peas and Pancetta are good on a night when you are out of time.

Peas and Pancetta in a Flash

(Adapted from Farfelle with Peas and Pancetta, Gourmet, June 1999)

4 cups frozen petite peas 

2 tbls olive oil

¼ - 1/3 lb pancetta, diced

2 large shallots

1 lb dried bowtie (farfelle) pasta

salt and pepper, optional

freshly, grated Parmesan cheese

Fill a large, pasta pot three fourths full with water and bring to a boil for peas and pasta.

Cook frozen peas in boiling water until tender, about 2 minutes, and with a slotted spoon transfer to a colander and spray with cold water to stop the cooking. Do Not drain the water from the pot.

In a large, heavy skillet, heat oil until hot but not smoking and cook pancetta in oil, stirring occasionally, until golden brown and edges are crisp, about 8-10 minutes. Now, at this point, I usually take my pancetta out of the skillet and drain it in a paper towel lined bowl. Then, I give the skillet a once over wipe with a paper towel, drizzle a little bit more olive oil in and then, add the pancetta back in along with my shallots. I do this because I'd rather cook with olive oil than bacon grease, but you could skip all of this and just add your shallots into the skillet when your pancetta is done cooking. Once, you've added your shallots, cook them, stirring occasionally, until just tender about 3-4 minutes.

While your pancetta is cooking you can return the water in pot to a boil. Cook pasta according to directions on package. Before you drain your cooked pasta, reserve 1 cup of pasta water. Drain pasta in colander and add it to your finished pancetta mixture with the peas, ¼ cup reserved pasta water and salt and pepper to taste. (I find that this recipe doesn’t need any added salt and pepper, but that’s just my preference.) Heat mixture over low heat, gently tossing (and adding more pasta water as needed if mixture becomes dry), until just heated through.

Serve pasta with your freshly, grated Parmesan cheese.

While I have made this recipe exactly as written before, some nights I don’t bother with the mixing it all together with the reserved pasta water that I forgot to reserve and I just have the troops scoop up their pasta and put the peas and pancetta on separately. On this particular night, I also happened to serve this dish with a cornucopia of fall fruit: persimmon, pomegranate, pears and apples. What did the children think of the persimmon you might ask? Not much.

Yield: Enough for a family of 5 with a bit leftover…perfect for a thermos in a lunchbox the next day.

All original text and photos copyright: Carrie Minns 2009