How Wood Princesses Dine

They sit upon the table top with a pound of chanterelles. The chanterelles have been sauteed in browned butter, with slivered garlic, sea salt, ground cloves, and cinnamon added partway through cooking, and a good woodsy drizzle of maple syrup just before the pan was pulled from the heat.

Some wood princesses have a glass of wine in hand and perhaps a handrolled cigarette laced with fragrant desert sage. Desert sage smells like cougar tracks in the snow. Smells like cats scratching at the cabin door and the wood princess telling them, "No, darlings, if the coyotes don't get you, the cougars will!" as she forks into a bowlful of butter-tender golden mushrooms.

Avocado!

Christian invited us over for dinner. He made burritos with blackbeans, his mean vegetable stirfry, and guacamole. It was rapturous, but he had to tell us he's made better. I asked him if the Jehovah's Witnesses interrupted his dinner preparations, as they had come by my place again -- with their adorable 3-year-old daughter in tow.

"I told my daughter there was a nice girl with a cat in this house," said Mr. Witness.

The timing actually couldn't have been worse. "This is a really bad time," I said, still barely able to resist the clever ploy, those blond ringlets, those limpid eyes.

"No," said Christian. "I tell them I'm gay and they never come back. But really, these avocados aren't quite ripe enough. I have done better, I'll have you know."

Today at work when I chalked a 60-cents-apiece avocado sign, I knew I had to try my hand. I loaded up on limes, tomatoes, a Hermiston sweet onion, and four fat, dark, tender avocados. My guacamole was almost as good as Christian's: bright with lime juice and seasoned enough to make the avocados bold.

Harold McGee says that avocados are one of the few fruits that can only ripen off the tree. The tree pumps a ripening-inhibitor to all its avocados, allowing them to hang indefinitely in suspended adolescence from its branches, only to ripen when severed from that which gave them life. A neat trick I learned from Mama Ho: slice the avocado in half lengthwise. Whack the pit smartly at an acute angle with your knifeblade and twist it up toward you, lifting out the pit in a single smooth motion. I think she also had some clever trick for getting the pit off the knifeblade in another smooth motion, but I can only manage it with numerous jerks. Refrain from hitting (on) her girlfriend and you're good to go.

Two Meals from a 3 lb. Chicken with a Tragic Past

A few miles from my old house is a hamlet called Singer's Glen, where Joseph Funk assembled the Harmonia Sacra and where my friend's grandmother made two suppers from a three-pound chicken (the recipes for which are in More-with-Less). Her daughter worked for a time in a local poultry barn and contracted something called Brown Lung -- a chickenshit-and-dander version of bronchitis. The long poultry houses smell like ammonia from yards away, and the dirty gray birds are overgrown broken-legged things that we'd commonly see smashed into tractor-trailers on their way to the processing plants. Sometimes a young one would fall off the truck, and you'd see it wandering by the side of the road looking for all the world like a white grocery bag buffeted by the wind from passing cars. We'd stop and take it home and raise it for a while till it got old enough to crow and attack us, and then we'd do it in -- and stretch it into two or three meals. Poor lucky bird.

The principle: Stew the chicken the first night, with the usual onions, carrots, celery, potatoes, peas or sweet corn, reserving the broth and some of the meat for chicken soup the next night. Complete the classically Mennonite simple meal with raisin-studded refrigerator bran muffins (which reminds me: the usual recipes for refrigerator bran muffins call for boxed cereal, like raisin bran. I do not condone the existence of boxed cereal, so I'm working on a recipe that doesn't depend on something so expensive, preservative-ridden, and disgustingly sweet).

When I had raisin bran as a child, Mama picked out half the sugary raisins to use in baking.

Grape Juice & Stock

Mama tells me it's harvest time. Following some thirty years of tradition, she and H. Rose's mother spent two days making grape juice and blanching soybeans. Fresh, hot Concord grape juice is more magic than most humans can bear.

By soybeans, we mean the fresh ones -- what the upscale grocer calls "edamame" -- which my grandmother planted in her garden back in the 40's. Soybeans are a little less good than we all thought, but who can argue with the moderate consumption of anything in my mother's garden?

But that garden is 3000 miles away, so in the meantime, I made stock and kept it a-simmering all night long. Even my favorite vegan said it smelled lovely. Brothy houses smell much better than brothel houses, and stock is rich in minerals and helps with digestion -- in addition to being the incarnation of savory goodness and the foundation of restaurant (French) cookery.

Lazy girl's stock (i.e. stock minus mirepoix): throw saved bones in a large pot, cover with water, and barely simmer the whole night through (don't stop don't stop don't stop!). Salt and pepper generously. Chicken carcasses are great, feet are better, cow knees and other ligamenty portions are fantastic, but so long as your bones have marrow and gelatin, you're set. Pour through cheese cloth and pick through the bones for the nice bits of meat. The amount of time you spend picking the bones is inversely proportional to the size of your bank account; I spent an arbitrarily-large amount of time, even chewed on some of the sufficiently-softened chicken bones, and collected enough meat for my lunch.

Sauerkraut

Oh, cabbage. Your vitamin C saved sailors from scurvy. You fueled the conversation between the Walrus and the Carpenter. You were Roman bar food. You inspired a line of cute dolls my parents never bought me. The Chinese pickled you back when they were building the Great Wall. The Tartars took the pickling idea west, where it thrived in places like the market down the street from me in Hungary (where three competing pickle-ladies offered me abundant free samples), and in Germany where my ancestors hid in caves and anabaptized each other with sauerkraut. Nowadays I can't eat pork chops without craving a little something tangy and wrinkled and gray.

So today we made sauerkraut --the oldfashioned, non-vinegar kind that bubbles away in a dark cupboard. I slivered it thin while W. Crawford smashed it with his fists. I added half a cup of whey and two tablespoons of coarse sea salt (double the salt if you don't have whey), and packed it in two peanut butter jars, which hold more than a quart each. With the juices covering the cabbage shreds, we screwed on the lids and set them to bubble away in the cupboard -- along with another quart of yogurt suspended in cheese cloth to make more whey for next time. The plan is to make sauerkraut once a week, so that we have a steady supply. It takes several days at room temperature, and then several months in cold storage to reach its full flavor potential -- though we shall undoubtedly consume at least one jar within the next 72 hours.

A Visit from the Parsley Sage

An old lady stood looking up at the smoothie sign. I asked what I could get for her. "Now, you start with some kind of pre-made base, right?" "It's actually just fruit," I said. "Ah, yes, that's preferable. I'll take orange-strawberry-banana, with ginger, please."

I washed my hands and started mincing. We were listening to DeVotchKa, and I couldn't help but sway and dip just a little bit while I peeled the ginger. I flipped on the blender and under its deafening roar grinned back at the woman, who winked at me. When it was through, I handed it to her, and she thanked me not just for the smoothie, but for dancing. "It always makes it foamier," she said. There is a certain set of writers who are fond of dancing and reputed to live in Portland -- I was perfectly convinced she must be one of them, and felt my dancing knees go weak.

The line of melon-laden customers had backed up a bit, so I hurried over to the register just in time to ring in her smoothie purchase. How my fingers stuttered on the keys! She carefully counted out a pile of change.

"It gets me held up in airport security," she laughed. "But you know, coins can be used as brass knuckles, so perhaps it's a legitimate security concern."

Curious, "Do you know how?"

"Oh no. Any weapon could more easily be used against me. What's most important is the eyes." As if to elucidate, she added, "They cannot harm you if you don't believe they can. I suppose you know 'parsley' is misspelled on that sign? The lettering is beautiful -- I see why you wouldn't wouldn't want to change it."

"Yes, and I think the sign has an 'o' in 'spirulina,'" I said to show off. We laughed and said goodbye and as carefully as she counted change, she made her way across the parking lot. I was watching.

The Ladies' Pie Society

It's a dance party or a feast or the chance to make dozens of pies and distribute them to needy Reedies and other residents of Portland.

According to Everyday Foods (my most recent treasure from the Goodwill Bins -- a home economics textbook from 1949), pies should have crusts that are "tender, but free from the tendency to crumble, crisp on the bottom as well as along edges," with a "flaky, slightly rough, almost blistered appearance." The filling ought to be "neither too dry nor too juicy... tender and quivery." The baker attempting a perfect-scoring pastry ought to be clad in something, "washable, attractive, and of course spick-and-span."

Ladies' Pie Society: 100 points for style alone.

The Ice Cream Man!

Cause I'm the ice cream man
I'm a one-man band
Yeah I'm the ice cream man
Honey, I'll be good to you!

(Doesn't he just ravish you?)

Music & food are a deadly combination of pleasures. If the witch had a gingerbread song instead of a gingerbread house, Hansel & Gretel would be dead meat. If the Sirens served pie, Odysseus would've gotten about as far as the silverware drawer. If someone sang me a minor tune about blueberries, I'd cry myself a Shenandoah and drown in the hot blue sky of my old Julys. And those blue heavens know my deepest dream has always been to serve Leonard Cohen tea & oranges that come all the way from China.

One of my coworkers came into work just before closing to buy 5 pounds of nectarines. She was going to sing about nectarines, and decided she ought to have the real ones right there. And last weekend, I was at a show where a real Ice Cream Man showed up -- and I'm telling you, honey, he was good to me. He gave away free ice cream to all the sad & happy drunk people in the dark. He knows how married they are, the food and the music. It's why I can't make pastry without the Pixies, or go to an old-time festival without a pie in my backpack. Even when I have to hitchhike.

Cornbread

There's a civil war in the cornbread world between the pure crusty Southern type and the fluffy sweet Northern variety. Mennonite cornbread tends to the Northern side of conscientious objection; i.e. whatever kind of cornbread you make, make it with the freshest cornmeal you can obtain, and use a lot of honey. Its instable polyunsaturated oils can transform cornmeal from sublimely sweet to puckeringly rancid in a short period of time. Attend one of those Mennonite relief sales where someone shows off his lovely steam-powered corn grinder and buy yourself as much fresh gold as possible. Store it in the freezer.

My recipe fills two #9 cast iron skillets (if you just found one of the skillets in your basement, be sure to scrub and season it well before using it). I love pouring milk and berries over leftover cornbread, so my recipe calls for lots of honey to keep the bread from drying out. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees fahrenheit and butter your skillets well.

Whisk together 4 c. cornmeal, 2.5 c. white whole-wheat flour, 2 T. baking powder, 3/4 tsp. baking soda, and 2 tsp. salt. In another bowl, whisk 6 eggs, 1 c. honey, 2 c. whole milk, and 2/3 c. yogurt. Melt 1/2 c. butter in a saucepan. Add the bowl of liquids to the dries, pour the butter over top, combine with a few deft strokes, and pour into the skillets. Bake till golden and pulling away from the edges.

I served this last night with the bean soup. For my lactose-intolerant friends (a.k.a. "lactards"), I used olive oil in place of butter, and water with a couple splashes of vinegar for the milk & yogurt.

Serve cornbread with butter, honey, jam, and maple syrup -- or just crumble it into the soup.

How to Know When You're Pregnant with Bean Soup

Perhaps you'll know from the moment you awake and don't want to disturb the cat on your feet. Perhaps the rain on your bike helmet will be a little too loud. By midmorning you'll find yourself soaking a couple of pounds of navy beans in four times their volume of water. After work, you'll drain, rinse, and put them to simmer in a great big pot (with fresh water -- the digestive advantage in soaking your beans will be lost if you don't change the water!). You'll add the tomatoes -- lots! -- and starting browning several onions in another skillet in plenty of butter or olive oil. If you're not cooking for your vegan friends, throw in all those ham bones you've been collecting in the freezer. Be careful not to add anything salty (like salty canned tomatoes) till the beans are cooked; salt toughens bean skins so they take longer to get soft and then split when they do.

When the beans are well on their way to done, add the well-caramelized onions and chopped carrots, celery, and garlic, and anything about to die in the crisper. Then go reconnoiter the spice cabinet.

I'm sure it's not a new analogy, but mixing spices is a lot like mixing paints. Sometimes you get purple and sometimes you get off-gray. Too many flavors "confuse" the palate. There are some wonderfully complicated, even baroque exceptions; namely, Indian cooking, and rainy day soups. It helps, of course, to have some sort of theme in mind. I like smoky red things like paprika and chipotle in my bean soup, maybe a little tangy sumac and green stuff like sage, oregano, and thyme. Grind black pepper on everything. Remember: when all those poor mercenaries died in the Crusades, they weren't dying for the grail or gods. It's always been all about pepper.

When the beans are really soft, it's time to go into labor. First check the texture of the soup. If it's too thin, pour some of the broth into another sauce pan to increase the total surface area, and boil both pots to the desired consistency. Next, add several tablespoons each of salt, molasses (or brown sugar), and cider vinegar. Thirdly, assess the "mouthfeel" of the broth. If there are bones in it, they'll add that nice silky gelatin finish, but if it's vegan, you'll need to add something saturated, like coconut oil. Fats mellow and blend flavors, so if the acid gets out of hand, counter it with fat -- just the way salts and sweets counter each other. Taste and edit wildly-- this is the fun part! Remember to cleanse your palate with wine between each tasting. Consult with your housemate -- she'll be your midwife. Taste again. If it just needs something ineffable, keep adding the sweets, salts, sours and fats till a spoonful of the broth is like ten cats on your bed, fifty good books, and a hundred thousand steaming cups of tea.

Vegans: Bones add savor from sodium & other minerals, and a nice rich texture from their gelatin content. The clever vegan will remember to add extra extra salt and swirl in a goodly-sized chunk of coconut oil at the end to make up for the absence of bones.

Serve your baby with cornbread for the complementary protein synergy. (Complementary proteins: grains & dairy, beans & rice, corn & beans, pie & ice cream, wine & cheese, coffee & cigarettes).

Flattest Pancakes

What my Aunt L. calls "Dutch pancakes" are, it turns out, what the Hungarians call palacsinta: a large thin pancake, slightly sturdier than a crepe but filled with a similarly vast array of sweets & savories. My dough-bespattered heirloom version of the Mennonite cookbook More-with-Less calls them "Grandmother's Russian Pancakes (Pflinzin)" (but I thin that recipe down to make them suit me -- so maybe the real Russian thing is distinct). In good "more-with-less" spirit, I use extra eggs, whole wheat flour and flax meal to bulk up the cakes' nutritional value. I've made these for Saturday breakfasts and Thursday suppers since I was a gal of 12.

Whisk 5 eggs, 1 c. milk, a pint of white whole wheat flour, and 1/4-1/2 c. flax meal to a pourable consistency. Adjust the milk to make it so, and be sure to whisk away all the lumps. Fortunately, this is the sort of batter that can tolerate numerous edits -- and the first few pancakes are for experimental purposes, anyhow.

Heat your cast iron skillet(s) to a nice medium and, if you've been lucky enough to find a friend who gives you homemade ghee, put a teaspoon in the skillet. I'm not usually a fan of moderation in fats, but these pancakes cook better if the fat is minimal (after the first couple, I re-grease between every 3 or 4 cakes). If it's nice & sizzly, get a good mitted grip on your skillet and pour 1/3 cup of batter into the middle with your free hand. Immediately lift the skillet high and tilt & twist it so the batter spreads out into a perfect circle as thin as the batter will go. Tilt it back & forth so the batter's all even, and replace it on the heat. Watch it closely! As soon as the top no longer appears gooey wet, loosen it up and flip it over. It should be perfectly golden at this point -- calibrate your heat accordingly. Give it a bit on the other side, and when it's got golden spots, toss it onto a plate & cover with a tea towel. The whole process takes just a handful of seconds -- which is convenient when the Jehovah's Witnesses come knocking and you need a non-confrontational expedient escape. Repeat until the batter's exhausted, editing with milk and flour as you go (it often gets thicker at the bottom).

Serve the towering mound of pancakes with butter, jams, yogurt, honey, maple syrup, and any savory fillings you may have cooked up (this morning it was a fantastic pork gravy with sage & smoked paprika to make it reminiscent of sausage) (I am so sorry, L. Joy, for being so clattery and noisy in the kitchen when you were sleeping on the living room floor this morning. Thank goodness you have a plush queensized bed of your own now).

Aunt L. taught me this super-elegant trick for eating the pancakes: spread the whole disk with your favorite toppings. Then thread the bottom tine of your fork through the right edge of the cake just like a needle -- in and out -- and deftly twist the handle of your fork so the pancake spins itself up into a tight little roll around the fork. Slide your fork out and cut it into dainty morsels. Some folks stack multiple pancakes with different fillings between each layer, and H. Rose always eats hers like burritos -- with her hands, maple syrup running to her elbows.

Samples

Tonight after work I hurried into the Trader Joe's for some wine for a dinner party. But of course I had to get a sample from the sample man, and it just so happened I was the only customer sampling the samples. I'd had the same thing last night -- tofu in Cuban mojito simmer sauce -- and told the sample man that I loved the samples. The sample man said I could have an extra, and made it special with parmesan cheese in it. Of course, during the time that he was making me my special sample, I had to engage in charming conversation (easier when buzzing on my favorite iced jasmine tea with half & half). I let him tell me all about Jefferson State, a subjunctive state that would include northern California, southern Oregon, and an extra spoonful of parmesan.

At the dinner party, I was too full for anything but chocolate and somebody's sweet sweet guitar.

More Meat, More Meat!

"More meat! More meat!" runs the refrain of an old ballad about a demoness who eats goshawks, dogs and horses. Of course, good King Henry breaks the curse and by the early light o' dawn the demoness transforms into a beautiful girl -- a pure-hearted vegan maiden who bikes to the co-op on Saturdays in a vintage skirt that rides up over her tattooed calves.

The first version I heard was by a prolific folk-rock band called Steeleye Span, who put some electric meat on the gory old tune. Incidentally, yesterday found me with 10 lbs. of pork loin (hot, quick, & salty in the cast iron for a good sear & lots of juice).

Flesh and Blood

The vampire's been mining my veins again, so I wasn't surprised yesterday when I was dizzy, tired, and thirsty for blood. Growing desperate, I lifted my muzzle, howled at the stars, and set off on the hunt. I feel a wee bit sinful hunting in this city of vegans, but I'm very conscious and principled about my bloodthirsty, fleshcraving, bonecrunching carnivorous habits.

After several hours with my nose in the wind, I tracked and felled some grassfed hamburger. At home with my kill, I sprinkled the meat liberally with Celtic sea salt and pepper, pressed it into large, thin patties (they tighten up plenty), and threw them down on a hot #9 Wagner till browned on one side. I flipped them, topped them with sharp cheddar cheese, and let them brown on the other side in only as much time as it took the cheese to melt -- so as to get as many of those magic caramelized sugars on the surface of the burger before the juices cooked out. Because it's all about the juices, anyway.

My meat-eating boils down to having an omnivorous animal body. Back in my idyllic childhood, I ate a lot of venison, steers from our pasture, chickens I helped butcher, and the occasional stray snapping turtle. Meat-eating should be just that: personal, respectful, and nourishing. I was vegetarian for a couple of years in college, and it really took a toll on my health. I wasn't even a coke-and-french fries vegetarian -- I was the real quinoa deal, balancing my complementary proteins and eating the wholest of whole foods. But that's when the vampire started coming round, sucking up my energy and joy and ability to think.

As I composed this post, Badmas dragged up a little mouse from the basement. I think it's her first. She was so proud of herself, so excited by the chase, that she hadn't yet killed it all the way -- so I snapped its neck with my heel. I still feel guilty; I've always been fond of mice (even when they colonized my garret room and ate all my sweaters and pooped on the tatters). I killed the mouse for the least selfish of reasons, but that doesn't mean I don't ache for it. That's what I mean when I say meat-eating should be personal. I injure lots of lives in complete ignorance -- so much of my food and fuel is stained with blood from far away -- but the more I feel the damage I've done, the less damage I will do. And I will not damage myself.

The Sun, the Moon, and the Melon

When I hawked peaches in high school to pay for night classes, customers would sometimes ask about the difference between yellow and white peaches. "White peaches," I was instructed to tell them, "are to yellow peaches what honeydew are to cantaloupe." If they weren't familiar with honeydew or standardized test analogies, I told them it was that old moon-sun dichotomy. Lunar versus solar flavors -- really just a Mennonite metaphor for the taboo issue of white and red wine.

I thought of it today as I carved a gibbous honeydew into crescents for the queue of customers at the register. They were up so late they saw Orion haul himself over the horizon to prophesy wintry fruitlessness, and the experience left them jonesing for a musky creamy-green melon fix, the fecund marriage of honeysuckle and wicked blinding moonshine mountain dew. (Speaking of which, some of the nicest moonshine has slivers of Georgia Belle peaches swimming in it). The juice trickled to my elbows. Small children gathered around my skirts and followed me out into the sunshine with tambourines and panpipes.

Take another shot, I say! Nibble flesh from rind, kick Orion under the horizon, and kiss me, honey, do....

Vicious Tomatoes

Last night a girl called tomatoes to-mah-toes. She wasn't British.

This morning I locked myself out of the new house & got ambushed by a bushel of romas. They dealt a few swift blows before losing their surprise advantage. It was a little dicey till the onion, basil, and oregano subdued them and I landed the coup de grăce with a splash of balsamic. Hackwork, really (I didn't even brown the onions!) but decent under the circumstances. I'll wait till much later to add the garlic and salt -- I like my garlic to keep its bite.

À La Mode in the New Abode

First, L. Joy and I made a nest on the living room floor in front of the fireplace, with all our blankets and pillows and Dante and Babette. Then we turned to the kitchen, and both got giddy at the prospect of planting our spices and skillets in uncharted territory. We had some conflict over the proper location of the vanilla. I wanted it next to the coconut oil for tropical synergy, but it really ought to be with the other spices (which are, by the by, NOT next to the stove because they do not stay as fresh near the heat). Fortunately, we each have a huge bottle of high-quality Mexican vanilla gifted us by concerned relatives, so there are now two vanilla locations in the kitchen.

And though I do not usually admit to the existence of baking mixes, L. Joy did unpack a box of Ghirardelli brownies, and I figured I could make neither my first nor last concession for Ghirardelli. We used butter instead of vegetable oil, and added extra eggs, and vanilla from both of our stashes. But after all that, the silly oven wasn't preheating. I realized the temperature knob was attached wrong, and for a moment I revisited my days with the Prince cookstove, testing the oven's warmth with my hand as my Aunt J. taught me. This, unfortunately, is one of those built-in electric ovens with an incomprehensible timer apparatus.

But junky as my new oven may be, it does heat things. When the brownies were done, gooey but pulling back from the sides, L. Joy miraculously conjured up some ice cream, and we blissed out on boxed pleasure.

SuperGORP

One time not so long ago when I was traveling to Hungary, I put together something I called SuperGORP -- several pounds of peanuts, walnuts, raisins, minced prunes, sunflower seeds, coconut, apple schnitz, sundried tomatoes, and chocolate chips (for dessert). I subsisted on it for some days, during which I shamelessly used SuperGORP as a disarmingly dorky conversation starter until M. Jacob told me that GORP was an acronym for Good Oldfashioned Raisins, Peanuts, and that I had rather stretched the definition with the tomatoes and chocolate.

I'm moving again. This time, I'll be within the same zip code -- though it's my eighth in two years. After so much traveling, I've finally perfected my SuperGORP recipe: take one pound of very dark chocolate, and eat it by the ounce. The theobromine rush will make you capable of any number of painful goodbyes, turn strangers into friends, and add sparkle to the emptiest of new houses.

Goodbye, Lil' Baghdad. What a lovely summer fling you were.

Life Amongst the Dollarbags

A week or so ago I mentioned a delightful store that sells extra-ripe produce in dollarbags. Now I make dollarbags. I know all about the criteria for the dollarbagged produce, about the politics of spreading out the "premium" seconds among numerous bags, and about the people who buy dollarbags multiple times daily. I know when to snag the figs for myself, and when to leave the gargantuan sprawling heirloom tomatoes that, without scrupulous upkeep, will only disintegrate like the great fragile egos of melodramatic jilted girlfriends bleeding mascara all over my kitchen counter.

Like everyone in early September, I have enough needy tomatoes in my life as it is. Today I chopped one coarsely with half a neglected avocado (neglecting one or two tomatoes in September is understandable -- but tell me -- what sinner neglects avocados and still finds her name inscribed in the Book of Life?). I sprinkled on coarse Celtic sea salt, black pepper and sprouted sunflower seeds, crumbled in sharp raw cheddar cheese, drizzled it all with EVO, and called it "supper".

Supplemented, to be sure, by some savory-sweet chocolate-covered almonds -- and extra-ripe figs.

I love my new job. Instead of comparing sex lives, my coworkers talk about Cat Power and embroidery and how hard it is to find a job with a Ph.D. in evolutionary ecology. We exist in that urban limbo of hypereducated fruit vendors, flirting with the hypereducated Trader Joe's employees next door with whom we maintain an openly symbiotic relationship, and who may or may not have supplied me with the sharp cheddar and the chocolate-covered almonds I'm always popping. We're eager to show you where the gluten-free flours are found, and just how juicy the blackberries are, and how to select an avocado that will be perfectly ripe in time for your classy dinner party 48 hours from now (without jeopardizing one serif of the golden ink with which your name is written in the Holy Book).

And I'll always put extra spirulina in your smoothie if you smile like that.

Paprika Gets Csípős

I emptied the last of the édes paprika into my hair today, and topped it off with some csípős. I can't say whether the Hungarian-ness of the paprika actually makes the henna redder or not, but the peppers of a nation famous for drinking bull's blood really ought to be the reddest. I suppose Spanish paprika might also contain a lot of bull's blood. Édes (EH-desh) paprika is made from sweet peppers, whereas csípős (CHEAP-ush) is spicy, more like cayenne.

As a general matter of principle, one ought to add as many reddening potions to one's hair dye as possible. I've concocted henna recipes with all manners of paprika, cinnamon, cloves, cayenne, hibiscus, coffee, red wine, and human blood -- all with flaming success. I mix my henna with strong black tea (and reddening potions) to the consistency of algae. Then I let it sit somewhere warm, covered with a plastic bag, to ferment. The next day, I pull a garbage bag (with a hole in it) over my head, add some olive oil to the henna, lather myself with coconut lotion wherever I don't want henna to stick, and start globbing it on to the dirty blond roots of my hair with a comb. I pull the garbage bag up over my hair, secure it, and wrap it all up in a towel to incubate for several hours, during which I may or may not watch too much Cowboy Bebop.

I rinse it out into a bucket, and empty that down the toilet (or water the garden; it clogs bathtub drains just like you would expect a gritty green slime to do). Applied properly, henna should leave your hair smelling of new-mown hay and blazing with the color of a thousand flaming, bloody peppers.