(Rachel, the daughter)
I’m heading out to drop Jackson off with his Mimi (Jared’s mom) for a couple of hours this afternoon. This is the third day in a row that she has offered to help out with Jackson so I can work on the book. Although she insists it is all her pleasure, I’d like to let her know how much I appreciate her help.
In my husband’s family, steak is probably the most revered food item… followed closely by chips and salsa. They aren’t into chocolates or sweets. I know, GASP! Their idea of dessert is a bowl of salty popcorn. But they love their meat and potatoes and their chips and salsa. Since steak is an awkward gift for a vegan to give, I often jar up my love and appreciation for them in the form of salsa. Occasionally, Rhonda will show up at my door with an empty jar, “In case you or Jared plan on making salsa anytime soon,” she’ll wink.
Last weekend I stumbled upon an amazing salsa recipe by chance. I was out of a few of my staple salsa ingredients and just started throwing things in the food processor to try and whip up a make-do salsa for our Mexican-themed dinner. I was bummed when the food processor stopped spinning and I opened it up to see a thin almost watery salsa. I grabbed a can of pumpkin and added it to the salsa, then found some chipotles in Adobo sauce in my freezer. I gave it another spin and voila, I had a thick, creamy, smoky salsa with a touch of sweetness, a hint of pumpkin, and a nice kick of spice. I was smitten.
I liked it so much I made another batch today (some for us and some to share with Jared’s parents). It conveniently makes enough to fill two 32 oz spaghetti sauce or mason jars–one for you and one to share with a friend. Don’t be surprised when they show up at your door step with the empty jar and a little wink and a nudge, though.
Chipotle Pumpkin Salsa
Makes 4 cups
2 cups of frozen corn (or 1 can drained and patted dry)
2 small jalapenos
4 cloves of garlic, unpeeled
a drizzle of olive oil and sprinkle of sea salt
1 14.5 oz can of fire-roasted diced tomatoes
4 chipotles in Adobo Sauce (slice open and remove seeds from two of them)
1 can of pumpkin
1/2 c. cilantro (use it if you like it, but it’s optional)
1/2 t. sugar
1 t. onion powder
1/4 t. salt
Heat oven to 400 degrees. Line a large baking pan with parchment paper. Pour corn kernels on one half of pan. On the other side, put the jalapenos, garlic (wrap unpeeled garlic in foil to prevent them from burning–not like shown below), and tomatoes sliced in half with cut side up. Use a pastry brush to put a small amount of olive oil on the tomatoes and corn. Sprinkle tomatoes with a touch of sea salt. Roast for 20 minutes.
In a food processor, add all the remaining ingredients except the corn, plus the tomatoes and jalapenos (you may want to seed the jalapenos if you don’t like a lot of spice–you can always add the seeds back in if it’s not spicy enough). Squeeze the garlic from its peel into the food processor bowl. Process until everything is chopped and blended to the desired texture. I went for a smooth texture on mine. Stir in corn. Serve with chips.
(Note from Mama Becky: A departure from our regular humor-recipe-based food blog today, in light of the recent events in Colorado and my ten days away. A little long, but there’s a lot in and on my heart.)
It was good to touch down in beautiful Colorado tonight, after ten days of vacation in the Great Northwest. Thank you to all who have prayed for those who’ve suffered so much of late in our beloved state. Not only do the victims of wildfire and random violence need tenderness, kindness and love to help heal the shock, pain and loss; but I really do believe that we, as friends and family and strangers, are also in great need of TLC in the aftermath of ongoing traumatic news. Tragedy like this takes its toll on an entire community’s psyche.
There’s something healing in spending time with each other, in the basic acts of cooking beautiful meals from fresh ingredients or lingering over a dinner at a restaurant as couples, family, friends. When I heard of Friday’s sorrow in Aurora, after prayers and connecting with friends and family, tears shed for the victims, I returned again and again in my mind to this scene: me in an apron, in my own kitchen, cooking something for people I love. One of my first responses when hearing of someone’s suffering is to cook something comforting, stabilizing and warm.
In her beautiful memoir, Keeping the Feast, the journalist and author Paula Butturini writes about the healing powers of cooking and sharing simple meals with friends in Italy, following a tragedy (her husband was nearly fatally shot by a sniper’s bullet) and its lingering trauma.
She writes, “I may write about the smell of asparagus, the color of polenta, or the taste of figs still warm from the sun, but all of it is a personal shorthand for weighing love and hunger, health and nourishment, secrets and revelations, illness and survival, comfort and celebration, and perhaps most of all, the joy and gift of being alive.”
Like tears – cooking, serving, and eating together is a language without words that hearts understand. Food with love is a powerful healing force in a hurting world.
I had a tough time getting to sleep Friday night, but woke to a picture-postcard perfect day in Oregon on Saturday, the day my husband and I planned to celebrate our wedding anniversary.
We drove from our little beach hideaway (that had been filled to the brim with relatives) in Neskowin, Oregon, and spent the day alone, driving through green and gold patchworks, hillside wine orchards that seemed, in my mind, exactly as Butturini described Italy. We were celebrating eight years of wedded bliss in every happy sense of that word. Ours is a marriage of passion and compatibility, easy love and great fun. Some couples forget to be grateful, take each other for granted. Somehow, we do not. We know too well the fragility of life and the rare gift it is to love and be cherished in return.
As we entered Portland, one of the well-known foodie meccas of the world, Greg said, “I want you to get to enjoy everything your heart desires today.” Because Greg’s palette craves simplicity over complicated layers of flavor, and he prefers reliable favorites over the risk involved in curiosity and surprise, this was a true gift of the heart. I jumped at the offer.
First stop: Salt & Straw for crazy ice cream.
Lines wind around the block with folks waiting for buttery ice cream with flavors like Cherry and Bone Marrow (Alas they were out, it is a wintry ice cream. Who knew?), Pear and Blue Cheese, and Strawberry Balsamic with Pepper. (I sampled both. Two thumbs up.)
My choice was the seasonal special:
I loved every drippy sweet-spicy-savory bite, and Greg could tell it by the huge purple Marionberry stains on my white shirt.
Last night, we went to Yakuzas. The reviews showcased mouth-watering Chef designed entrees and appetizers, and since their one and only burger was voted the best in town, I knew Greg would be happy with something semi-familiar and filling. When we arrived the sun was just beginning to dip, the night temperature was windless and pure perfection. The entire restaurant was open without any walls at all, to the street and the patio out back.
“Do you have reservations?” the young woman asked. I had not thought to do this, but immediately wished I had, as every seat in the house was full. Luckily, a table vacated within minutes of our arrival.
We began by sharing an avocado and cucumber sesame salad. It was a simple salad: chunks of avocado and cucumber, tossed in sesame oil and sesame seeds. What made it over the top was the sprinkling of flaky, kosher sea salt.
This was followed by three little straw purses of divine yumminess: phyllo dough somehow made into thread-like strips, wrapped around three huge sea scallops and twisted so that the straw “hair” stuck straight up in pony tail fashion. They were sitting on a dollop of some sort of rich sauce – perhaps a cocktail sauce blended with heavy cream and a squeeze of fresh lime? Greg looked dubious. Then he tried a bite, and smiled, rolling his eyes heavenward. My meat and potatoes man was, at long last, being seduced by foodie fare.
The arrival of the hamburger sealed the deal. We were told that the meat was from pampered Kobe cows. To our shock, the chef only cooked it one way: rare. We are not rare meat eaters, but the waitress assured us this was unlike any rare burger we’ve ever had. The chef grills it and then covers it to let it sit for 20 minutes. This renders the beef pink-ish red but has no blood, no raw taste. It is served with a local chevre, crispy straw potatoes doused in truffle oil, and sesame brioche buns. We closed our eyes to the color of the meat, took one bite and both grinned like idiots, eyes rolling again. Seriously the best burger I’ve ever tasted and Greg would agree.
After dinner, we walked in the summer evening air the few blocks to our car, and I felt nourished in every sense of the word. Thankful for the privilege of being alive in this moment, in my husband’s kind presence, in the afterglow of an unforgettably good meal, and surrounded by the eclectic funky beauty of Portland.
When life gets harsh, when it hurts and confuses and wounds, it is these things that soothe and re-balance us: gratitude, love, kindness, food, and beauty. May these be yours in abundance today. And may they grace especially our beloved Colorado and her people.
“….we were longing for those comforts that blend of light, warmth, food, beauty and friends – the very elixir that had nourished and protected us before…” Paula Butturini
“Everything that brings light in this dark world is of and from God, the Father of Lights.” My pastor, Hugh Halter