Deborah Madison has been an unquestioned member of my kitchen for over four years now.
The feature article in the Portland Mercury this week implores readers to “Eat Your Vegetables!”.
When faced with a cluster of purple, white, and pink radishes, their shapes alternating between perfectly round orbs and oval-like eggs, what sane person would shove those enticing shapes to the side and opt instead for the greens attached to them?
We’re now so far into Spring that daffodils have been replaced by eager tulips, and camellias have faded to make room for the first tentative rhododendron buds.
By June, I’ve become dismissive of rhubarb – a feeling I hate to admit, because it means that in the span of a month, I’ve transformed from actively, and eagerly, seeking it out at the market, to haphazardly tacking it on at the end of my shopping list, well after strawberries.
Throughout strawberry season – which lasts all summer in Oregon – our kitchen is rarely without a few tiny blue baskets of strawberries.
I can never eat enough quinoa – which is not to say that I consume quinoa for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but rather that no amount of it seems to fill me.
Carrots are always heaped on tables at the farmers market, but when overwintered carrots appear in April, I renew my enthusiasm for this versatile root vegetable.
In the past year, amidst unpacking, painting, gardening, work, and trips near and far, Portland's weather shifted according to the seasons: Summer involved three months of surreally beautiful dry weather, Fall brought unexpected color change, and Winter, a season I was prepared to "survive", was mild – gentler than previous years', I've heard.
I love it when dishes take familiar taste combinations and present them in slightly altered ways.
When I brought home six pints of strawberries, my vague ideas about what to do with them consisted mostly of what I didn't want to do with them.
Fresh produce can have an extremely limited shelf life; I have to stay on my toes to make sure we eat the produce we bought from the farmers' market before it loses its flavor.
I've stated before that my ideal weekday lunch is seasonal, nutritious, and filling.
I'm clearly on a rhubarb streak, as the last recipe I wrote about also features the stalky vegetable.
I learned last year that I don't have the tastebuds or palate to eat rhubarb as a main part of a savory dish, like in pasta or soup.
I could eat pizza four days a week and would still excitedly say 'yes' if someone suggested grabbing a pizza on the fifth day.
A few weeks ago, I planned a bike ride that took me from our house in Portland's Sunnyside neighborhood down to the Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden and back, roughly 10 miles in total.
This cabbage was truly massive.
It's challenging to create a recipe when you're faced with both ingredient and time restrictions.
I've taken to eating radishes as the French do: whole, served with one ramekin of whipped butter and another of chunky sea salt.
We've been in Portland for 10 days and it's rained 8 of those days.
I wanted to share this recipe as soon as possible, before it's too late to make it!
Rhubarb never overstays its welcome at the farmers market: it shows up, people flock around the bins, and then it's gone.
Portland is surrounded by mountains and bordered by the Columbia and Willamette Rivers.
While we were in Portland, exploring the farmers market, we couldn't help but notice how many farmers' stands featured stinging nettles.
As I wrote yesterday, our kitchen turned green last weekend.
I had planned this post for tomorrow, but today's weather makes it a necessity.
Saturday's dinner took an unexpected turn.
March’s weather is wacky.
I love parsnips, especially when paired with carrots.
Fiddleheads are the unfurled fronds of an ostrich fern, their name derived from their close resemblance to the musical instrument.
As the farmers' markets continue their spring time unveiling, you can now find rhubarb at many of the stands.
Until moving to Brooklyn, I was unaware of the relative insanity that surrounds the start of ramp season.