It's not a Marjorie Standish recipe, but these radishes are too exquisite not to celebrate.

I've been reading food writing lately.  Not just New York Times restaurant reviews, but memoirs and essays and collections of work from people whose business is to really, really appreciate food.  In fact, I just yesterday finished Blood, Bones, and Butter by Gabrielle Hamilton, and I now have an urge to, maybe just once, taste rabbit.  This summer, I read a booklength quest to sample foods mentioned in Mark Twain's writing that included (I am not making this up) a trip to an annual raccoon eating festival.  I read Julia Child's personal letters to her best friend, discussing the intricate nature of egg poaching.  I listened to Anthony Bourdain navigate his way through remote Asian soups.  I have been absorbing descriptions of foods I will probably never experience, and throughout this experience, it became so very clear that good writing is good writing--no matter the topic.

Take adjectives.  Specifically, take adjectives in relation to the radishes I purchased at the Farmer's Market in Monument Square.  How many ways are there to describe a radish? Red, obviously.  But it's not just red, it's more of a pinkish red.  Sunset?  Candy? Like a button on a machine that I am forbidden to touch?  Red like the lit end of a Malboro?  Or red like Waikiki twilight?

And that's just the color, never mind the taste.  These radishes, organically grown, taste subtle.  But subtle like just a pinch of pepper added to a bowl of soup?  Or subtle like black leather boots with an otherwise conservative outfit?  The radishes were crunchy, too.  Super-crunchy.  Super like the man?

Descriptions can make or break a piece of writing.  The right ones can transport a reader on the exact road for the exact journey a writer intends.  The wrong ones can leave a reader confused, lost, and wondering where the piece is headed.

Here's how I would describe my radishes.  Red, subtle, and super-crunchy, yes.  But these radishes were simultaneously artful and simple in a salad mix of  tender baby chard and crisp romaine lettuce, dressed with balsamic and mustard with olive oil and a dollop of honey to offset the bitter.  The greens were a mix of tender and crisp, and the radishes elevated the experience to a texture crescendo.  When I finished my bowl, I ate more. 

Luckily, Trav and I also had Scotch Oatmeal bread from The Baker's Bench in Westbrook.  When I asked him about the many ways to describe food, he was eating a slice of this bread.  I asked him to tell me about the bread.

"This bread is so good," he said, "it would be a sin for a mom to cut the crusts off."

Description doesn't have to be fancy.  It just has to be right.

Challenge:  Describe a food in your pantry, but describe it without using any words that end in -ly. 

I had lunch with a friend this week.  We hadn't spoken since Travis and I were planning our big Nashville adventure.  "What happened with that?" she asked, and I didn't have an immediate answer because, basically, we just changed our minds.

I was offered a terrific position there.  (Hi Larry!  Many, many thanks!)  But in the end?  The culture wasn't an immediate fit.  The culture was not a fit, and Travis realized he could build his business on the east coast on his own merit and terms, while still sleeping in his bed each night.  When you are a professional musician, that's a rare asset.  If we went to Nashville, he'd be dependent upon the potential for a random stranger to "discover" him, and that felt wrong. 

There was also the real estate thing.  This was, I think, when we knew for sure that Nashville wasn't a match.  We met with a real estate agent to learn about neighborhoods.  We introduced ourselves as friendly, left-leaning, artistic folks who valued a pedestrian and dog-friendly neighborhood, preferably near a college or library of some sort.  Schools and playgrounds weren't important to us, and since we very much appreciated traditionally gay districts in other major cities (DC's Dupont Circle, the Castro in San Francisco, the Village in NYC), could we please start looking there.

The reaction (and I swear I was not trying to be an ass) was precious.  She plugged her ears and told us that she was going to pretend we didn't ask that.  She told us we were in the south now, that Nashville didn't have a gay district, and then she discarded half of the printed listings in her lap.  She crumpled them into the trash can.  "You wouldn't like these areas," she said.  "These are for families."

It was just the "fuck you" we needed, and it made the decision to change our minds so much easier.

I reference this story to note that it's okay to change your mind.  Some of the best decisions in life involve last minute switches in direction.  Like my Marjorie Project.

I'd initially imagined  a year of cooking through her most unusual recipes (Tomato Aspic?  Shrimp Wriggle?), but I find myself averse to her many recipes that call for a can of cream of mushroom soup or a packet of gelatin or a jar of Cheez Whiz.  I find myself averse and seeking something familar.  Recipes I know and love, that yield comforting and traditional foods.

That's today's project.  Cherried cranberries.  It's not cabbage and Sterno, but it's good, and it feels like home.

What is different about Marjorie's recipe and a traditional cranberry sauce?  Near as I can figure, baking soda and covering the pan.  This pan-covering causes the cranberries to puff up and expand, and rather than gel into a sauce with split berries, the berries stand on their own.  It's really just cranberries though.

Then into a pan with sugar, water, and soda.

Bring to boil, reduce to simmer, and then cover for 15 minutes.

And then it's done.  Super easy!  The result is lovely.

Challenge:  Think of a time you changed your mind.  Was it a good decision?  What would be different now if you had not made that decision?

The world is not a perfect place, and pumpkin pies don't always turn out right.

My friend Jessica (author of 365 Days of Change) posted about her attempt to make Marjorie's pumpkin pie, and this was equal parts flattering and and exciting.  "Someone actually reads this blog!" I thought.  As I noted her subsequent pie updates, they became more and more distressed.  The pumpkin pie process failed, she needed advice, and she was blaming fractions.

Sometimes, things go wrong.  In the kitchen, in life, everywhere.  For instance, I just spent $625 on a new muffler.  Unexpected, shocking, and definitely not how I planned to spend an afternoon.  But, it happens.  It's just a muffler, just money--and it's just a pie.

Pies, at least, can be re-done.  So, today I'm revisiting the pie-making experience.  I encourage revision among my students, and I encourage it in the kitchen.  If something goes wrong, I think the best approach is to ask questions, obtain feedback, and try again.

So, here we go.  In more detail this time.  If you have questions, please ask!

First, three eggs into a bowl. 

Next, some sugar. Find the 1/3 cup measuring scoop.

Now is time for the milk.  This is where Jess says the process went awry.  I suggest a Pyrex measuring cup.  1 and 1/2 cups of milk.  (This can, in a pinch, be reduced to 1 cup, but it will yield a smaller pie.)

Mix it all up with a fork.  See how nice and foamy it looks?

Pumpkin into bowl, a single can's worth.

I eyeball spice amounts because I've made this pie a million times, and I just have a sense of how I like it to taste.  You can eyeball it, too.  More cinnamon, less nutmeg, less ginger.  I just shake a bunch of those spices into the batter. You can't mess it up.  More spices will taste more spicy, fewer will taste more pumpin-y.  Win-win!

Stir it all together, and then pour into a prepared (uncooked) pie crust.

This is the piece where the pie typically fails.  It's very important to have the oven pre-heated to 475.

Pie into the oven, and fifteen minutes later, set the oven to 325.  An hour later, you'll have something like this.

Jess maintains that she measured the milk incorrectly.  Again, it happens.  Measurements get wrong, substitutions don't work, ovens fail, ingredients get forgotten, and sometimes nothing comes out right no matter how precisely a recipe is followed.

This is baking, this is writing, and this is life.  Get back in the kitchen, back to the pages, and up off the couch.

Challenge:  Re-visit a failure.  A recipe, a chapter, a poem, or any household project that was an epic fail.  Tackle it now with new eyes and a new perspective.

"You are so lucky."  This is what people tell me when they hear my husband perform.

While I do consider myself extraordinarily lucky, it's not because of Trav's voice.  If my husband suddenly lost all vocal ability, it would have zero impact on my feelings for him, so I always have a moment of disconnect when people hear his music and comment on my luck.

My sense is that in addition to the good fortune of being married to a talented performer, they also mean I am lucky to be immortalized in song.  At least, I think this is the bigger intention.  People want talents recognized, and Travis occasionally notes mine in verse.

For instance, my pumpkin pie.  It is Marjorie's recipe, and it is the best recipe for pumpkin pie I've ever encountered.  Why is it the best?  Because she uses ingredients that are easy and usually on hand.  There's no sweetened condensed milk (nasty, gooey, spoiled-looking stuff), special pumpkin pie spice or complicated directions.  Ingredients into a bowl, mix, pour, and bake into a rich custard that tastes precisely like autumn in New England.

I like to use my favorite pie plate, a Monroe Salt Works classic.  It was a gift from my mother, and it is one of the nicest things in my kitchen.  Isn't it pretty?  It's very Maine.

Sadly, the grocery store was out of One Pie pumpkin, so I substituted Libby's.

Mix it all up, pour into an unbaked pie shell.

And then into the oven.  Here's the trick to a good custard-style pie: high heat first, then low heat.  Pie goes into a 475 degree oven for 15 minutes to puff up and set, and then the heat is reduced to 325 for another hour to bake.

The end result is perfect pumpkin pie.

So perfect, some songwriter might even be inspired to write a lyric about it.  Here is a link to the song in CDBaby, and again in iTunes.

Challenge:  Have you ever written a song?  Try it.  What sort of experiences would inspire a song for you?  What are some of your favorite songs and why?