THE MINOR LIFE

Life on Minor Ave East

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a Minor change

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Back in the Minor kitchen and things are well with my heart. 

These empty winter mornings are seemingly endless, offering long stretches of kneading, dicing, swirling and simmering. I track the sunlight as it sweeps across the backyard, envisioning the infant tips of our first seedlings peeking through the sleepy soil -- curly blue kale, Waltham broccoli, giant Oregon snow peas. I peel a small, bruised banana, slivering it with a spoon over a bowl of pumpkin seeds and flax granola, drizzling them with sweet almond milk. I retire to the olive suede couch that devours me in my morning meditation.

This will all change just one week from now. As I prepared a thick slice of Roo's home baked truffle oil baguette, rubbed it with a clove of garlic and topped it with a slab of warm ghee, the changes this new job will bring oozed into my conscious before the butter could seep into the bread.

A strong feeling of panic leeched at my heart. While I have never been more excited (and more thankful) for an opportunity such as this, I worried for the loss of my domestic undertakings. Who would spend the day boiling vegetable peelings into the sweet, briny stock we've come to expect? Would the prolific garden we've mapped so carefully come to fruit this spring? Would we press raw almonds for their milk, knead our quiche crusts from scratch, pull together scraps that might normally beeline for the compost bin, but instead are the inspiration for our oeufs en restes (French for "eggs in leftovers")?  Remember that omelet of fridge misfits? Buttered mashed cauliflower bedded with seared broccoli and shallots, topped with boiled lentils, sprinkled with stinky pecorino and folded inside eggs gently cooking in coconut milk. I wanted to swim in it.

We pay such a steep price for convenience. It's not just the loss of nutrition in quick-fix meals; it's the loss of ethical supermarket choices, the ignored gravity of wasted food, and the struggle to remember that eating is an act of celebration. 

For me, it's buying the coffee beans whole, grinding them slowly till they flick golden dust. Checking, then grinding them more. It's measuring the grounds, predicting how many cups I'll want today. It's waiting for the shrieking tea kettle to settle to a quiet whistle, then waiting long enough for the water to penetrate the grounds. It's reveling in the oil that collects on the surface. It's patience.

With long working hours, my focus will surely shift. There will be no foraging of ocean water for boiling and baking into sea salt. Dried beans will be left dormant in the corners of the cupboards, and their canned counterparts will re-emerge. I'll inhale porridge in the morning, neglecting the very essence of this meal -- a slow, simmering awakening to the day. I'll likely leave out the frozen blueberries too, which require two minutes too much for their insides to thaw. How I will miss the contrast as they bleed into the sticky beige bowl, reminding me of the blue stains that swallowed our fingers last summer as we picked them.

The panic subsided when I conceded this: while the loss of time may constitute the loss of truly frugal eating, it would not change what cooking has become for me. These months transforming my kitchen into a playground have matured a culinary pleasure that is kneaded with a respect for ingredients, diced with intuition, swirled with resourcefulness and simmering with a celebration of the malleability of food. I am now moved by what I eat. 

I leave you with this excerpt from Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast: (via)

"As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans."

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the Minor sounds

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Late at night, when the splash of sailboats on Lake Union have quieted and the air thins to reveal a crisp echo to all sounds, the roar of planes high above the Minor mansion picks up. The rumble is unmistakable; a wavering thunder interlaced with the gentle, high-pitched whistle of air rushing past metal. 

As the plane drifts across the blackness, the waves of sound bend and flex unexpectedly, breaking the stillness of the night. They fill the Minor mansion with a deep, droning hum. In it, I find solace -- the same solace I imagine so many find in the drone of televisions, highways and trains.

On this night as we lay in bed, the flickering lamp throws shadows across the bare walls. There is no rain, no wind and the neighbors have not yet returned home. In the distance, the alarmed drill of an ambulance flares, then is quickly drowned out by the more immediate anxiety of a Scottish Terrier in a nearby building. A window is snapped shut and the barking evaporates. 

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the Minor menu: Winter turkey, chickpea & kale soup

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When we lived on Yale Avenue, just a block East and a small hop to the North of the Minor mansion, we squeezed our lives into a 500 square foot box.

While our lovechair boasted views of early morning kayakers commuting across the thick fog of Lake Union, the remainder of the quaint studio got the short stick. The bathroom was but an afterthought closet in the dimly-lit bedroom, and the kitchen seconded as the hallway. So despite a shared epicurean passion, we rarely touched toes at the stove. 

It would seem fate then that we would find our little Minor mansion in the manner that we did -- taking a walk through the streets of Eastlake. A 'For Rent' sign hung in the alleyway window, and all the blinds were snapped tightly shut except one, which looked into the kitchen. Peering in, I knew right then that this mansion was meant for us.

Today, this little scullery of ours is always buzzing. Before we had even finished unpacking our spoons, I had invited a handful of women over to share a fall-themed feast. As if on cue, we all migrated into the kitchen, our hearts filling as quick as our bellies. I knew right then that this mansion chose us.

Last night, in socks and slippers, we cooked together. While I measured spices for our stew, you brewed our first batch of kombucha. We chopped your Grandmother's asian pears for the next day's goat cheese salad. And when you weren't looking, I touched your toes to mine.

That's why this soup's for you, Roo.

Not-So-Minor Winter Turkey & Kale Soup

Inspired by this soup

Ingredients

1 onion (diced)

1 carrot (diced)

A handful of cremini mushrooms (diced)

1-2 tablespoons of olive oil

1 1/3 cup of chickpeas (we used canned) 

1 bunch of kale (torn into bite-sized pieces)

7-8 cups of water + bouillon, or broth (we used 6 cups leftover turkey broth, 2 cups water)

3 cups of shredded leftover turkey, or whatever meat you have! Cooking in the bone is fine with this soup.

1 bay leaf

1 tsp garam marsala spices (we made our own! See this recipe -- We replaced the coriander with curry powder. Don't be afraid to get creative!)

1 tsp cayenne pepper

1/2 tsp cardamom

1/4 tsp of dried thyme (fresh thyme? even better!)

Directions

Heat oil in a large soup pot. Add diced onions and carrots (and any other vegetables, except kale and mushrooms) and cook until onion is translucent. Meanwhile, mix chickpeas with bay leaf, garam marsala, cayenne, cardamom, and thyme. Turn up heat to medium high, and add the chickpea mixture to "toast the spices". This shouldn't take long -- maybe a minute. Add the mushrooms. Add broth/water (depending on what you've got), and turkey. Bring the soup to a boil, then reduce to low and simmer for 1.5 hours, stirring occasionally. (We went and had sushi at a local cafe while we waited). Add torn kale to pot, stir, and then let simmer for another 30 minutes. Once kale is tender, the soup is ready! At this point, you can add salt to taste. We found it is best enjoyed served from a wooden ladle at the kitchen stove... toes touching, of course.

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a Minor morning

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I never want to leave, I say out loud.

The words startle this quiet morning, shaking the condensation that has collected on the windows during the night. A few beads slip down the glass, pooling on the sill. I envision ripples branching from the center of the droplets, colliding at the edges with a great force, and expanding the little puddles till they bleed together.

The kitchen sink is full, but I don't mind. Sticky bowls of pumpkin pancake batter, mixing spoons gummed with wet flour and knives slick with butter. My skin, my hair, my everything smells of sweet brine -- of slowly simmering turkey bones, bubbling beneath a peppered foam.

I never want to leave, I say. But this time, I whisper. 

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the Minor menu: Gluten-Free, Dairy-Free Plum Galettes

A few months back, we were gifted with two heavy bags of hand-picked plums. If you've spent some time in Seattle during a Puget Sound summer, you'll know that plums seem to tumble from thin air, staining streets and sidewalks and the bottom of children's feet.

When I lived in Bellingham, I would forage for them around the wealthier neighborhoods, where the most extravagant houses with the most immaculate gardens paid little attention to their palatable purple counterparts. So we'd fill our sacks with them, and pray they didn't pulverize one another on the bike ride home.

Plums are one of my favorite fruits -- tart, but sweet if you have patience. The firm skin tears to reveal soft, colorful flesh (valuable for cooking), and they are packed with vitamins (A, C, E & K, to name a few).

To celebrate our first weekend in our new Eastlake cottage, I made a plum galette -- gluten and dairy free, inspired by this yummy recipe. While neither Roo or I are gluten-intolerant, nor have celiac's disease, we both believe there are substantial benefits to living a gluten-free life. (I'll go into that more later).

I've baked a handful of gluten free pastries now, but this was BY FAR my best work. That flakey, buttery crust I dream of, and never thought I'd recreate? Well, I finally found it. Word to the wise: The dough can be a bit finicky, so make sure you have a little time on your hands to perfect this one.

Minor Mansion Plum Galette

Makes one 8" galette

Crust:

1 cup rolled oats

3/4 Bob's all-purpose gluten-free flour

1/3 tsp. sea salt½ cup coconut oil, chilled for 20 minutes in the freezer

2 Tbsp. maple syrup¼ cup ice water (unlikely you'll use all of it)

Filling:

2 overflowing cups of sliced plums

2 Tbsp. maple syrup

2 Tbsp. Bob's all-purpose gluten-free flour

1+ tsp. vanilla extract

1 tsp. cinnamon 

½ tsp. dried thyme

Directions:

1. In a food processor/blender pulse oats until they are finely ground (resembling flour). Add Bob's flour & salt, blend to combine. Add chilled coconut oil (will be slightly solid), blend until a sandy pancake batter consistency. Add maple syrup, blend, then add ice water one tablespoon at a time until the dough begins to come together. Empty the mixture onto plastic wrap. If it is solid enough, knead dough until it comes together. If it is still too moist to knead, wrap in plastic wrap and place in the refrigerator for a minimum of 30 minutes.Remove, and knead, then place back in the refrigerator for 10 minutes.

2. While dough chills, complete the filling. Pit/slice plums, then toss with other ingredients. Set aside.

3. Preheat oven to 375F. Remove dough from fridge, unwrap, and set on parchment paper. Roll out dough into a circle, about 1/8" thick.

4. Place plum mixture in center of dough, and fold edges up around the fruit. Sprinkle fruit with a bit of brown sugar, if you'd like a sweet crust!5. Bake in the oven for 30-35 minutes. The crust will be turning a dusty, crispy brown. Plum juices will be sizzling around the edges. Allow to cool before slicing. Irresistible if served with greek yogurt, or a squeeze of lemon.

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Meditation on Minor

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Most days, the commute back to the Minor mansion is an hour. I dial in to KEXP's Wo' Pop show, or if it has been a particularly exhausting stretch, NPR's All Things Considered. I try to focus on the words, but mostly I just listen to the tonal fluctuations in their voices. Fighting in Libya? Quicker cadence, laden with as much breaking excitement as public radio can foster, usually male. Education cuts in Washington? Alto female, slow and hesitant, her sentences punctuated with accusation.

I'm sure there's a ghostly appearance to my features in that drive. The blinking cursor absent stare, sunken cheeks, clammy skin and bloodshot eyes. The unnatural curve of a 9-5 spine.

I reach our block, esoteric 1/2 Minor Avenue, turn off the headlights, drop my foot from the pedal and pull my left knee to my chest, instinctively, perhaps even protectively. I run my nails through my hair and across my scalp. I watch raindrops fall into familiar shapes on the window. Mostly I sit, and do anything but think. My daily meditation.

Inside, there is an olive-green loveseat with half of a cushion and a warm body anxious to embrace me, swallow me, love me.

But right now, I am here. And this is where I want to be.

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the Minor mansion

The Minor mansion is an unassuming two-story brick tudor with a small grassy terrace and a peekaboo lake view. It is tucked in the alley of 1/2 Minor Ave -- our secret little street. Even the mailbox is difficult to find here.

Perhaps, I imagine, it was once a residence for a wealthy's au pair, or a playhouse for the children of the extravagant early-century mansions that peer down upon on us. 

The Westward facing red walls heat up like coal in the afternoon sun, and when they meet the cool Pacific air, tiny wisps of steam radiate off the brick, creating a luminous glow. Inside, the walls are a dusty white with soft, rounded moulding, paper walls and window sills wide enough to read on.

On fall days, the Minor mansion smells of sweet, spiced cider and melted caramel. The warmth of freshly brewed tea lingers here -- of earthy Rooibus and pungent orange. A beast in the basement coughs to life, spewing warm air through rickety wood panel registers. It is not easy to get out of bed in the mornings here. But we've developed a system. We fold back the blankets one-by-one, until the goosebumps melt away and our joints adjust to the cool, moist morning air. There are usually a few retreats. Finally, a leg grows restless and nudges a few toes off the edge and onto the icy, chestnut floor below.