Lemony Red Lentil Soup, A Cure

Happy Saturday, reader. This morning, I remembered a conversation I had with a friend recently. He told me about something called Paris Syndrome. It's not a croissant addiction. (I know. You're surprised too, right?) It's an extreme case of shock resulting from an individual's finding out that Paris is not, indeed, what they'd expected it to be. Yep, not kidding. This is a real condition for which the Japanese Embassy in Paris has set up a 24-hour hotline (it occurs in about twenty of its Paris-touring citizens each year). Psychiatric symptoms include anxiety, delusional states, and hallucinations. "I think I might've had it," my friend added. "But it was Disneyland, not Paris. And I was maybe six."

There's a metaphor in there somewhere, about the anticlimax of all those little moments we anticipate and and over-plan for. First trips to Disneyland, promotions, round-numbered birthdays on which we expect to wake up noticeably wiser and more mature than we were the day before, mimosas that are mostly orange juice. And the day Adam and I took my sister-in-law to the beach, about two weeks ago, so we could dip our toes in the water and sunbathe and eat coconut shrimp at Malibu's Seafood. She'd flown in from Brooklyn for the weekend to see us and to thaw her bones under the California sunshine (her weather app showed 18 degrees in Brooklyn that day). When we got to the coast, though, we could barely see the sun; it looked lethargic and pale behind a gray wall of fog. 

I'll spare you the banal platitudes on coping with life's little letdowns, reader. It's Saturday, after all, and you're having brunch and generally trying to stay positive about life. So instead, I come to you with a cure: lentil soup. Hear me out. This recipe is like an antidote to disappointment. Last week, Adam and I frantically made a batch for a couple of last-minute dinner guests. Or, more accurately, Adam made it from a set of instructions I texted him from the grocery store, where I'd run out for a baguette and some dessert. I completely forgot to tell him to add carrots and later found out that he'd usurped creative control and added more than double the amount of cumin and chili powder I'd advised. But it turned out wonderfully, maybe even better than my version. No matter how you make it (or ruin it), this soup always promises a dose of comfort. 

The credit for this one goes to Melissa Clark of the New York Times dining section, who really knows how to make a foolproof recipe. So many of the lentil soup recipes I've tried (and believe me, I've tried a lot) have ended up tasting like health food experiments gone wrong, the components never fully meshing with one another, the lentils remaining kind of hard and chewy no matter how long I let them simmer. I can't believe I never tried red lentils before—it turns out they held the solution this whole time. When they melt into the broth, the texture of the whole soup becomes thick and velvety from the starch. So many elements of this soup work so well, like the contrast of the earthy cumin and the bright pop of lemon juice and the sweetness from the tomato paste and the carrots. I modified the original recipe to suit our tastes over here. My version has more cumin and tomato and a generous hit of chili powder for heat. If you'd like something a little more delicate, you should consult Melissa Clark's version instead. 

This soup has become something of a ritual in my apartment. I make it in big batches on Sunday afternoons for the week ahead. I make it because it tastes wonderful and because it's filling and healthy. But I think there's a small part of me that also takes comfort in knowing that, if nothing else goes according to plan, at least we'll come home to something reliably good and nourishing. I hope you find it similarly helpful. 

Ingredients
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 large yellow onion, finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
2.5 tbsp. tomato paste
3 tsp. ground cumin
1 tsp. chili powder
kosher salt to taste
1 cup red lentils, rinsed + sorted
1 quart chicken broth
1 cup water
2 carrots, peeled and diced
1/4 cup lemon juice
chopped fresh cilantro for garnish
a few grinds of black pepper

Directions
Heat the oil in a large pot on medium-high heat until it simmers. Add the onions and cook until they're soft and golden-brown. Add the carrots, garlic, tomato paste, cumin, chili powder, and salt. Mix well. Stir for another two minutes before adding the lentils, chicken broth, and water. Once the liquids begin to simmer, partially cover the pot and reduce the heat. Cook at a gentle simmer for about 30 minutes or until the lentils are soft and cooked through. Depending on your preferred texture, ladle about half the soup into a blender and puree until smooth. Pour that half back into the pot. Stir in the lemon juice little by little, tasting as you go. Add more salt if necessary. Serve drizzled with olive oil and a garnish of fresh cilantro. 

Slice of Life No. 5—Uncharted Territory

Hello, long lost reader. I looked at my last post and realized that it has been almost a full month since I've written here. I could blame the usual suspects—too much work, too little sleep, a muse like a fair-weather friend who only comes around when it suits her needs. But the truth is, I've been putting my energy into other projects—into starting a business and writing a book. And in the beginning stages of these two very personal endeavors, I haven't been as inclined to check in and share what's going on. It feels so new and so messy that I want to hibernate, to work from a cave (one with central heating and good lighting, please) or seclude myself in a cabin somewhere in the woods of New Hampshire à la J.D. Salinger until it all works out. However, as those two options are not available to me momentarily, I've just been keeping to myself, carving out as much time and space for planning and writing as possible. 

"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth."

That's Kurt Vonnegut on his writing process. I get it. Right now, in the uncertain beginning of things, I feel like a weather reporter who has been plopped into the middle of a storm. I should be able to tell you more about where this is all heading, but honestly, that Doppler radar or whatever they use these days isn't really very accurate. Also, I'm having trouble concentrating with 30-mile-per-hour winds and hail pellets pummeling the side of my face. Even writing the words, "I'm writing a book," makes me feel audacious and unqualified. Who am I to put down more than an essay's worth of my innermost thoughts onto paper... and expect people to read it?! How utterly shameless! This, in case you're wondering, is the voice of my inner critic. She's sassy and sounds like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. We're in touch often these days. 

But please don't worry, reader. I'll get through it and, fingers crossed, become a writing machine sometime in the near future. Plus, there's the procrastination, which is too delicious, like skipping class to take a nap. (Oh what? No, I've never done that...) In the last two weeks, I've made Ottolenghi's Urad Dal with Coconut and Coriander, two batches of tomato sauce from scratch, butternut squash with za'atar and tahini, and enough egg-in-a-baskets to feed a village. I'm proud of the bounty, although it's really my husband who has this cooking-as-procrastination thing down to a science. He's been making bread. From scratch. As in, he cultures the yeast for the dough himself. I'm in awe. I married this man, in part, for his ambition. And he continues to deliver. 

So that's it, reader. I wanted to check in and say "hi" to you in this space, even though I have nothing to report but messiness, deep insecurity, and compulsive egg-in-basket making. If you know me personally, I'm sorry that I now live in a hole and haven't called or texted you back, especially if all you sent was one of those yes-or-no-question texts that takes two seconds to answer. (If that was you, for the sake of convenience, let's just say the answer is "yes.") (Unless you'd like my help with your upcoming move... in which case, I'll get back to you.) I hope you all have an excellent weekend. I'm off to make my inner critic a strong cocktail. 

Roast Chicken, A Small Form of Rebellion

Hello there. It's been an interesting year, so far. I traveled twice—to Florida to visit my grandparents and breathe luxurious tropical air, and to Utah to visit a dear friend and to see Sundance Film Festival. And snow. Genuine, real-life snow that made me say childish things like, "We're in a snow globe!" For someone who deals with snow storms and their slushy aftermath on the regular, Bianca (hi, Bianca) was very patient with my enthusiasm. Then, on Saturday, I felt a lot of feelings, like solidarity with the good humans marching for equality, acceptance, and justice. From my apartment, we could see an aerial view of the crowd as they gathered. I watched them for a moment, expanding and contracting, filling the open spaces of Downtown Los Angeles like crisp air fills your lungs after a long night of steady, shallow breathing. Awake, I suppose, is the best way to describe it, tired of my comfortable state of complacency, where I never should have settled.

Saturday was cathartic and radical. Which brings me to another, far less radical but super-slightly related topic: roast chicken. Though not a useful form of activism, roasting chicken has, in a small way, taught me to stick up for myself. Bear with me, reader. If you've ever sought guidance on a much-loved, often-recreated dish like caesar salad or eggs benedict, you may have experienced the cacophony of advice out there. Roast chicken is another such recipe. When I tried to make my own version, inspired by the one we had in Paris three years ago, I found recipes by Thomas Keller and Alice Waters, both helpful. Then I found a thousand more on the Internet and received more still from some of the more overbearing (but well-intentioned) cooks in my life. The whole universe weighed in, is essentially what I'm saying. And I spent weeks paralyzed. To brine or not to brine? Low and slow for moisture or high heat for crispy skin? Keep the feet on?! (Actual tip I received, by the way). 

Now I'm on the other side of this emotionally trying journey, having innocently taken way too many suggestions to heart, tested every tip and trick, failed, and finally learned something. When it comes to cooking (and eating... and probably life in general), our instincts often serve us better than the opinions of others.  So this is roast chicken, my way, pared down to what I think are its most essential, soul-satisfying qualities. And I will confess something to you right now, reader—this recipe is ninety percent about butter, as good things usually are. Used in the right amounts, it takes roast chicken from its rustic, comforting origins to the fat-on-fat nirvana of brown, crispy skin and perfectly-seasoned flesh so tender it yields to gentle a nudge of your fork. It brings out the bright background of lemon and sage, which I stuff into the cavity, and holds the flaky kosher salt crystals that settle on top of the skin. It's the type of chicken you might be inclined to eat with your face close to the plate, getting your hands involved even. 

This recipe does not hold The Secret to perfect roast chicken, though I believe it's pretty fail-safe (like almost any recipe with generous amounts of butter and salt). It's only the truest version of what lives in my memory from Paris, on the night when Adam and I sat in dark red booths inside a brasserie, shaking off the face-numbing cold of a snowy evening, and stuffing our faces with the most sensual version of roast chicken we'd ever tasted. I appreciate, reader, that you may have your own take on this well-loved dish, and it may be precious, hard-won, and passed down through generations. And if you do, then you should probably make that one. Think of it as your own personal form of rebellion, a shield against the ever-nudging voices advising you to try this or that (including mine) and a proud declaration of your own experience. Maybe it will help you dig your heels into even more important things, if the metaphor works for you.

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Roast Chicken, My Way

Ingredients, for brining the chicken
1 gallon cool water
1/3 cup kosher salt
5 black peppercorns

Ingredients, for roasting the chicken
1 whole roasting chicken, 3-4 lbs.
2 teaspoons Kosher salt
ground black pepper
1 small onion, cut into eights
1 lemon, cut into eights
8 sage sprigs
about three feet of kitchen string
3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Directions
If you know you’re going to want this chicken in advance, it's best to brine the bird overnight. The longer you brine, the juicier and more tender the meat becomes. Combine all of the ingredients for the brine in a large container (I use a stock pot). Add the chicken, and make sure it's fully submerged. Cover and place in the refrigerator for as long as a day or as little as four hours.

Prep the chicken a couple of hours in advance, so it reaches room temperature before you start cooking it. Pull the chicken out of the brine and give it a good rinse under cold water. Don't forget to rinse the cavity too. Dry the chicken thoroughly (the dryer the bird, the crispier the skin will be). Gently loosen the skin over the chicken breast. Massage the salt over the entire surface of the chicken and underneath the loosened skin of the breast, taking care to salt the cavity as well. Stuff the cavity with half of the onion, lemon, and sage.

Using the kitchen string, truss the chicken. Place the chicken tail side down with the drumsticks pointing towards you. Tuck the wings underneath the chicken. Run the center of the string around the neck, and bring the ends over the body, between the drumsticks, and then under the joints. Cross the ends of the string and tighten to bring the joints together. Loop the ends once around the joints and twice around the joints and tail. Tie a knot and trim any excess string. If my directions don't make sense to you, please consult the formidable Martha Stewart on trussing a chicken.

In a heavy-bottomed, oven-safe pan melt the butter over medium-high heat. Once the butter melts, add the other half of the onion, lemon, and sage around the sides of the pan. Place the chicken into the pot and sear for about five minutes or until the skin becomes golden and starts to crisp. Carefully flip the bird (for me, this typically requires two spatulas and a small melt-down—it's no easy task!), and let it crisp for five minutes on the other side.  

Once both sides are browned, turn off the stove. Cover the pan and place it in the 300-degree oven for about two hours. About ten minutes before the chicken finishes roasting, remove the cover from the pan and turn the oven up to 450 degrees to create that perfect golden crust on top of the bird. The chicken is done when a thermometer stuck into the thigh reads 165 degrees or if the juices run clear when your pierce the thigh with a fork. 

Then... be patient! The juices need time to settle or the meat will dry out a little. Let the bird sit, tented under foil, for about ten minutes before you carve into it. Once you've waited and removed the trussing, either carve up the bird or, as we do when we're hungry enough, just dive in. The meat should pull off the bone without any trouble. Eat with abandon, use your hands if necessary. Save your good manners for salad or turkey sandwiches or other foods that don't inspire a voracious appetite. 

2016, A Swift Kick

This wasn't the plan. I sat down to write a year in review style post. Instead, I'm diverting my attention to this plate of leftovers in front of me—lamb meatballs simmered for six hours with wine and shallots, butternut squash with tahini, and latkes à la Yotam Ottolenghi. My sister-in-law, who came for the holidays, flew back home two days ago and my brother, who also came to visit, is at my mom's house. On the 24th, we crowded into my kitchen, put on a throwback jams playlist, and spent all day dancing and making a royal feast for twenty (we were five). Sarah, a prolific baker, made brown-butter snickerdoodles and peppermint bark. Adam and I cooked our greatest hits. We played Cards Against Humanity by candlelight when the power in my building went out. It was perfect. And now my home feels oddly cavernous, as it always does when good company leaves.

A year in review. The idea made sense to me in 2015. I got married and traveled half-way across the world, twice. People threw parties for me just because I found someone special to do life with.  Those events were easy to write about, to package into a few short paragraphs with photos and life-affirming statements. 2016 has been different, less tangible, more about learning than doing. This year I've changed my career path twice; I've learned that I want to write a book and that I want to teach. I've given serious thought to living abroad, been too hard on myself but tried my best to forgive, stopped apologizing for the things I want, and accepted that my skin will never grow thick enough to protect me from every little snub and sting.

Traveling, in its finest and most unencumbered moments, has a way of prompting those lessons. This year I went to New York for my sister-in-law's graduation, to Indiana and Chicago for my brother's birthday, and to Denver for another birthday of a dear friend. Adam and I spent three weeks in Japan, in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Hiroshima. I've sought good and beautiful things, like the most luscious ramen I've ever tasted in Tokyo and the Manhattan skyline at dusk. I've embraced the unfamiliar, felt out of place in a way that was freeing rather than disorienting. I watched an American presidential election unfold in a Japanese hotel room on Japanese CNN and discovered that I am, to everyone's surprise, crazy about Chicago deep dish pizza. And I've been kicked swiftly in the rear, thwacked over the head by small revelations I didn't see coming—about what I want out of the next few years and the type of person I hope I'm becoming.

2016 offered other, more practical lessons too. I can confidently say, for instance, that I am no longer afraid of the Manual setting on my camera. I've also, finally, made up my mind about roast chicken, having tried the recipes of every culinary authority I love and trust in an effort to find what I deem to be the perfect roast chicken (according to me, that is). Also—did you know that linguine with clams (or linguine alla vongole or whatever you choose to call it) is the most straight-forward, turns-out-right-every-time pasta dish to make? I didn't. I thought surely there must be some voodoo magic involved in something this good. Not so, reader. Thank you, Alice Waters, for unlocking the secret to linguine alla vongole—which is that there is no secret. Only that beautiful broth, which tastes like a bright, silky white-wine cloud from seafood heaven. 

I suppose we'll have to consider this my (unofficial and imperfect) year in review post, reader. Happy New Year. I hope you're celebrating warmly and with good people tonight. Here's to a year with less existential dread and more zen, food that satisfies, meaningful work, good skin, good books, friends who love you enough to not stand for your sh&!, and more revelatory kicks in the rear, even if they hurt a little. That's, at least, what I'm hoping for.