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(This post originally appeared on Eat Your Books 06/10/14)
Every once in a while I like to catch up with what’s going on with kids’ cookbooks. I’ve looked at cookbooks for little kids (both story-based and picture-based) and cookbooks meant for teens. And, of course, family cookbooks, which tend to train a laserlike focus on Getting It Done on a Weeknight.
Yet for a long time, I wasn’t finding that these cookbooks played much of a role in my own family. Even though everyone here – age 54, 44, 13, or 8 – maintains a healthy obsession with food, my kids’ cookbooks seemed to hold no appeal for the kids themselves. I’d leave them out casually in common areas, or read them at storytime, but that’s as far as it went. The little one is good with flour and would join me in a heartbeat if she saw I was on a baking project. But she rarely followed even a stripped-down recipe. The big one avoided the kitchen entirely unless something snackable was out, or he had to put away the dishes.
I had little interest in pushing them to cook, knowing that when you’re a kid, being forced to do something by someone who’s an expert at it is a pretty good recipe for hating it. I decided to worry about other stuff, like car repairs and tuition and blackfly aphids on my broad beans.
But recently, something happened. The 13-year-old’s school year finished in the end of May. His school tablet computer was returned to the school’s tech department, and he suddenly found himself at home, faced with what I call the Gift of Boredom. He mooned around the house awhile, draping himself over furniture, pestering me while I worked, dipping in and out of a Game Of Thrones book.
I explained that he’d be making his own breakfast and lunch (cries of protest!) but that I’d help him if he needed me. He quickly got bored of his usual breakfast – eggs, scrambled flat and hard, with bacon – so I taught him mine, okonomiyaki. It’s just an egg batter plus whatever vegetables you have around, teased into a chunky pancake and glazed on one side. He started by mixing the flour and leavening and gradually progressed to chopping the vegetables, flipping the pancake (using a tart pan bottom), and cooking the sauce. His surprise and pride when he tasted his first okonomiyaki filled my heart – but I played it cool.
We ate at the kitchen table, where this season’s cookbooks were piled high. On top was The Soda Fountain, just sitting there waiting for a bored teen’s eyes to fall on it. He flipped through the pages, chewing thoughtfully. “These don’t look so hard.”
I sipped my coffee.
“Mom, why do they call it an egg cream?”
“Dunno, what does it say?”
Then, “Mom, do we have citric acid?” Then, “Mom, what are blanched almonds?”
Before I knew it, my son who hates to cook had occupied the kitchen like it was the Western Front in 1945. This was a week ago. Since then, nearly every day has started with okonomiyaki. Syrup after syrup has filled the fridge. Dinner often ends with an egg cream. Ants have come exploring for sugar spills and the dishwasher’s running twice a day.
Meanwhile, the 8-year-old suddenly remembered about Pretend Soup, which I bought a year ago. Post-Its were affixed. Ingredients were requested. And so my precious Me Time at 5:00 – that is, me with my cookbooks starting dinner while listening to the news and sipping my bourbon/ginger beer – got requisitioned for Projects. One day, a noodle pudding. The day before, a homemade lemon lime soda.
I make faces. I nag people to put away their stuff. I swear when I’m trying to fit things in the fridge and there’s no room next to the mason jars full of syrup. And both sets of measuring spoons are now always dirty when I want them. But secretly, I’m overjoyed. Even if it doesn’t last – even if they grow up and go through a ramen phase or a bagel phase or a nothing-but-kale-chips-from-the-store phase – I still have a feeling that a seed’s been planted, somehow or other.
Just don’t tell the kids.
This is Lumpy, who does not lay.
In the two years since I first became a flockster, I’ve often known who was laying what. The two Easter Eggers laid distinctive blue (Spalty) and green (Feather) eggs. The two Wyandottes laid smallish golden-brown (Stormy) and pinkish-speckled (Stripèd) eggs.
But the 4 Barred Rocks – One Patch, Two Patch, Lumpy, and Jumpy – were so alike in every way, their habits and nesting preferences and their pale brown eggs so similar, that I was never quite sure. After One Patch went to the big coop in the sky last year, I thought I’d figured it out. Not counting the Easter Egger and Wyandotte eggs, I had, I thought, three other kinds: a very regular-shaped extra-large egg, a slightly elongated, blimp-like egg, and an enormous egg with a “sleep wrinkle” on one end. Jumpy, Two Patch, Lumpy, I thought.
But after the March chicken massacre, the only Barred Rock left was Lumpy. And every morning since that awful day I’ve looked for her enormous “sleep wrinkle” egg, to no avail. The other two survivors, Feather and Stripèd, continue to offer up their pale green and pinkish-speckled treasures about 3 days out of 4. But of Lumpy’s egg – or what I thought was Lumpy’s egg, anyway – no trace.
Lumpy’s a healthy bird, with bright black-and-white feathers (especially glossy and vivid after the last winter molt), a symmetrical comb, and elegant small feet. She’s talkative, too, with a musical voice and a funny cry that sounds like the original Star Trek intercom whistle. All in all, she’s an easy girl to like. And I know she used to lay, because there wasn’t a hen in my flock I hadn’t caught in the act at one point or another. But right now, she’s not doing her job.
So this brings up the question: what do we do with layers who don’t lay?
Another kind of household would have an obvious answer: stew pot. And I’m sure my bloodthirsty, bottomlessly hungry teenage son would agree. But when the word stew pot comes up, I inevitably counter, lawn mower.
This is because one thing even a non-laying hen can do is keep the grass from encroaching into the garden in the summer. The Barred Rocks are pretty flightless (one reason they were easy pickings for the neighborhood dog, I guess), so they’re especially good at staying inside the fence and snapping off the grass tips, one blade at a time. It’s slow, but they’ll do it all day. They never get bored.
But the fact is, even if Lumpy weren’t a pretty good lawn mower, I’d probably have to keep her anyway. Friendly, harmless, not the most productive, occasionally entertaining – somehow, when I go down this list of Lumpesque qualities, it seems terribly familiar.
In that remorseless middle-aged way, I think to myself: Who else isn’t living up to their potential? Shouldn’t I be doing more in life than just, sort of, getting along? Is it OK to be an affable person, essential to my family, of value to some friends? To produce a small body of work that brings pleasure to a few? Is it enough?
The answer, of course, is yes – it has to be. Because if I spend my life worrying about not enough, in the end I really won’t have anything to show for myself. It’s just one reason – perhaps the most intangible, but perhaps the most secure – that Lumpy won’t be getting the axe.
Still I hope, for all our sakes, that one morning I’ll go out to that empty, haunted nest and find it: one enormous, sleep-wrinkled egg – the work of a day; the justification, however disingenuous, for a life.
This last weekend, we suffered a predator attack – our first since we first got our chickens exactly two years ago. It must have happened in broad daylight, while we were inside the house, laid up with stomach bugs. But none of us heard a thing. When R went to check on them for the afternoon, he found 4 carcasses inside the fence. Only one had been well and truly savaged; the others, it seems, were merely killed for sport. Amongst the drifts of fallen feathers, we found the muddy prints of a very large dog.
Our coop is a fortress that had served our birds well till now. We have seen predator prints in the snow, pacing the coop, only to find it impregnable from above, around, and below when closed. But the door had been propped open for the day, and the hens were enjoying the first few days of scratchable, bare earth after an interminable winter. After the dog jumped the netting, the hens must have run for the open coop in panic. Judging from the feathers lining the floor, the dog followed them in. Any hens that didn’t make it up the narrow ramp to the upper floor didn’t stand a chance.
They were only chickens, but in a small flock you’ve raised by hand, the losses hit hard. Spalty the Easter Egger was our one blue egg-layer – she gave us a lovely pale turquoise egg with a matte finish, and she was one of our cleverer birds. As a chick, her plumage was dotted and stippled like spalted maple, and that’s how she got her name. She nearly died last summer after eating something she shouldn’t have, but made a full recovery; and she was always the first to find a patch of chickweed or steal a strawberry or learn anything new.
Jumpy and Two Patch were Barred Rocks – docile and friendly, though Jumpy was rather thick. As a chick she was adventurous – the first to jump out of the nursery (hence the name), the first to catch an ant. She grew to be the biggest of our birds, with giant feet and a wobbly, crooked comb. She could scarcely figure out how to exit the coop in the morning for her feeding – she’d bonk her head repeatedly against the corner opposite the door because it had a clear view out to the yard. Clumsy as she was, she was a reliable layer. Unlike Two Patch, who laid oddly pointed, elongated eggs and would squat beneath your hand with a nervous stutter step.
I’ll especially miss Stormy the Silver Laced Wyandotte, who used to come running when she heard me weeding the garden beds. She’d forage for bugs right beneath my fingers, and she laid beautiful golden-brown eggs. After this year’s molt she grew skittish and would linger back in the coop when the others came out to greet me, as if she had a premonition that it wasn’t safe Outside. Alas, she was right.
Of our original 8 chickens, only 3 survive (One Patch died of a mysterious illness last year). We have one of each breed, now. The children’s favorite, Feather the Easter Egger, is still with us, still offering up an olive-green egg almost every day. So are whistling Lumpy and the speedy Stripèd, who is our escape artist and was hiding through the attack.
If there’s any consolation to be found in the timing of this disaster, it’s that it happened before the order deadline for new chicks this year. So in a month or so, we’ll be bringing in new little feathered friends – tiny souls to pamper, nourish, shelter, and delight in, and, eventually, to mourn. But hopefully not for some years.
One of the things I love about being a food writer is this: you can talk to anybody. In my first career, I worked as an editor for an academic press. I dreaded being asked about my job at cocktail parties, because it meant having to come up with some kind of bungled, context-appropriate translation of the subjectivity of the margin or queering the text.
But food! Everybody understands food. Everybody has something to say about food. And everybody has an interesting question or two for food writers. The most popular question is not What’s your favorite food? [Answer: Impossible to say.] or Who’s your favorite Food Network star? [Answer: Don't have one.] It’s probably Do you write restaurant reviews? [Answer: No.]
The short answer is: I do gain weight. All day long, I’m either cooking, eating, or thinking about food. Food is never not on my mind. I’ve always had a great appetite, and if I could, I would eat non-stop all day long. But it doesn’t take much to sustain a T. Susan Chang – just 1776 calories a day, ad infinitum. (My husband gets 2842, and eating-wise I’m totally capable of matching him bite for bite.)
Needless to say, I blow right past 1776 regularly. Especially in the winter months of Fatstember and Carbuary. (Have you noticed that butter tastes even better in the winter?) I’m resigned to gaining 5-10 pounds each winter – it’s OK, it helps me keep warm. But come March, it all has to come off.
This winter, I made it to a record high of 12 pounds over. That’s partly because we discovered Foyle’s War and Sherlock and partly because I recipe-tested desserts 2 or 3 times a week – a devastating combination.
During the summertime, I can maintain weight merely by sauntering along at the treadmill desk all day (I’m one of an increasing number, the walking working). But this winter, drastic action was necessary. I returned to an old friend, MyFitnessPal, which grimly informed me of my new Austerity Budget: 1200 calories, negotiable only with exercise.
To this I added a re-commissioned Fitbit Zip – formerly my son’s (he’s 13 and has the metabolism of a rocket engine, so he doesn’t need it right now). Finally, I added a third element: competition. I persuaded my husband to put his Zip back on too, and kept both of our monitors ostentatiously displaying our relative activity levels.
But basically, it’s a pretty simple arrangement: The Zip is a tracker – essentially a smart wireless pedometer – so it’s in charge of tracking of Calories Out. MyFitnessPal, with its giant database of foods and ingredients, is in charge of tracking Calories In.
The two systems, which I’ve linked together through their software, have slight discrepancies. They don’t always sync perfectly. And MyFitnessPal stiffs me 150 calories more than Fitbit, which makes a big difference at the end of the day when you’re seriously considering a cookie. But mostly they stay on-message. Mostly the message goes like this: Work at the treadmill desk whenever possible. Don’t have the second glass of wine. Take the stairs.
Calories in, calories out may not be the perfect fitness approach for everyone. But for a person who loves food as much as I do, it’s a lifesaver. It’s forced me to cook more carefully, knowing that if there are fewer bites they better be damn good. It’s forced me to move more, because I’m not just going to do without that 120-calorie tablespoon of butter. It’s forced me to eat more greens, because they so obviously have better bang for the buck.
Two weeks in, I’m close to 3 pounds down. But more importantly, I just plain feel better. I’ve got more energy. My brain works a little faster. And some of my jeans are starting to fit again.
There’s a frozen roll of cookie dough in the fridge – my favorite, double dark chocolate cherry. I made it two weeks ago, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of it. So far, I’ve waited patiently, gorging on it only in my imagination. But pretty soon, we’re going to have a word, that cookie and I. Actually, it will be more of a 4-way conversation: me, the cookie, Fitbit, and MyFitnessPal. But I’m pretty sure I’ll have the last word.
Like anyone who regularly uses cookbooks, I’ve often found a vast disconnect between how long I think a recipe will take and how long it will actually take. Add in ingredients you were sure were right there in the fridge but aren’t, the typical household chaos on a weeknight at 5pm, the time it takes to get used to a new recipe, a naturally over-optimistic temperament – and you have a scheduling disaster in the making.
Over the years I’ve learned that if I’m serious about avoiding hunger-induced family meltdown, I have to give scheduling just as much thought as I give the shopping list – that is, I have to at least try and guess what I’m going to need rather than winging it all the time. And if the cookbook gives an estimated prep time, I usually just ignore it because it’s bound to come up short (in my experience, maybe 10% of time estimates are accurate. The rest are too short. Or maybe I’m just slow). Anyway, here’s my time estimation method – maybe some of my tips will help you with yours.
1. Read the ingredients list. It’s the rare ingredients list that doesn’t have some prep embedded in it – anything from “garlic, finely chopped” to the dreaded “tomatoes, blanched, peeled and seeded” or “chilies (toasted, soaked, seeded, and chopped)”. For a list of a dozen or less ingredients where half call for a knife and half for measuring, I’ll give myself some 15 minutes – that’s maybe a little short, but you can usually get a little more chopping done once the onions are in the pan.
2. Skim the instructions, looking for time indications. Obviously, look for the words “about [X] minutes “. Keep a sharp lookout for “hours” – somehow “hours” and the stealthy “overnight” tend to hide until you run into them with 15 minutes left till dinner. Also look for the word “until“. Sometimes an author will give you an “until” cue (“until half the liquid has evaporated” or “until no longer pink”) without any other time indication. Also look for stealth time-words like “chill” and “rest“. Add this to your estimate from the ingredients list.
3. If it’s a new recipe (something you’ve made fewer than 5 times), always always add an additional 15 minutes or more. You’ll need it for finding your place in the recipe, flipping back and forth between recipes, finding the can opener etc etc. Sometimes I just go for broke and round the whole thing up to the nearest half hour.
4. Write down your estimate on the recipe or a sticky note, including idle time like rising times, chilling, marinating, resting etc. “2 hrs (incl. 1 hr chilling)”; “Overnight + 45 min.”; “2 hrs. (incl. 15 min. rest)
5. Finally, one more thing: How many new recipes are you cooking? If you’re cooking 2 or more new recipes simultaneously, add at least 1/2 hour for each additional recipe. If you have idle time built in to one of the recipes (see above), you can cut that down a bit – but not by too much.
Using these general guidelines, I usually can hit dinner on the mark at 6pm without driving myself too crazy in the process. I can sometimes carry on a conversation with my husband – though sometimes he has to endure a bit of lag time in the dialogue when my circuits are really oversubscribed – and maybe even enjoy a sip of wine or two.
A few more tips for streamlining
- Mise en place. Yeah, you know you’re supposed to do it, but you don’t. It really makes a huge difference. Do, do, do get out all your ingredients first. This really pays off with herbs and spices – can’t tell you how many years of my life I’ve spent hunting for the dried sage. For baking recipes, I get out all the measuring cups and spoons whether or not I think I’ll need them. But you don’t have to pull out every last prep bowl. The goal is once you get in front of your chopping board, not to leave till everything’s prepped. (For this reason I often prep backwards, doing the meat last so I can do everything on one board without worrying about contamination. I’m sure that would horrify many chefs. But it’s what I do.)
- Sharp knives. Makes all the difference in the world. My aim in life is to properly sharpen them once a week, but actually it turns out to be more like once every 3 or 4. If your knives are not in great condition, at least run them over a sharpening steel each day before you start. It takes 15 seconds and saves you an agony with the onion.
- Use a timer. As a true “out of sight, out of mind” cook, I’ve burned any number of things simply because they were in the oven and I forgot about them till they sent up a smoke signal. I still do, unless I use a timer. In general, I can only wing it if I’m prepping just one dish, with one time I have to keep track of and it’s less than 15 minutes. Otherwise, forget it. It’s not without its flaws, but I find this 3-line Maverick kitchen timer to be a big help.
- Clean up as you go. Start with your ingredients on one side of your board. As you prep, move the remainders to the other side, sorted by whether they go back in the fridge or pantry. Once you’ve got your ingredients prepped, spend half a minute just getting stuff off your counter. The one exception is flour. I always leave out the flour, because you always end up needing it for something later.
- Don’t clean up as you go. This is maybe controversial, but I never wash dishes as I cook unless I happen to find myself with idle time in the middle (marinating, chilling, rising etc.) or extra time at the end. Assuming you don’t have a designated dish washer person, just put everything in the sink and leave your hands free for that knife, silicone spatula, or wooden spoon.
- Don’t answer the phone. You may think you can carry on a phone conversation and read a recipe at the same time. You can’t. For some reason it’s easier to talk to someone who’s in the room while you’re testing a recipe than it is to talk to someone over the phone.
Of course, accidents will happen. I spilled my already-mixed flour, baking powder, salt and sugar for okonomiyaki all over the floor yesterday. The week before I spilled a solid 5 pounds of rice everywhere, and I still don’t keep the vacuum in the kitchen. Recipes are fallible, and so are people. But in the end, I always tell people, we can always order pizza. Nothing ventured, nothing gained!
So are we good to go? Tie on an apron, put on some music, and – ready, set, cook!
As a family, we have never had much luck with fruit trees. When we moved here as newlyweds 12 years ago, we were in love with apple trees as well as each other, and we planted four out back right away. Two died almost immediately, so we replanted the next year, and the next. When our daughter was born, we planted a couple of pears (I heard that was a tradition somewhere); we also tried peaches and Asian pears. There were voles, and hard frosts, and overeager bears, and in the end, only 3 trees out of well over a dozen survived. Dormant oil, conscientious pruning, organic kaolin powder -nothing seemed to help. Once in a while we get some small pears or some wizened apples. We try not to expect too much.
But the tree in the front yard is another matter. Some 5 or 6 years ago, I noticed the young sapling, looking out of place among the daylilies and echinacea in our neglected bit of dooryard. I had no idea what it was or how it got there, and in one of my periodic efforts in the direction of order, I took the lop cutters to it and tried to get rid of it. It was a bit too stout, though – the trunk almost as wide as my thumb – and I gave up.
But the amputated stump put forth leaves again the following spring, and the next, and sprang another trunk or two, and grew in height. I decided that, whatever else it was, it was now an “ornamental,” and we put away the loppers. After another couple years, pink blossoms followed by green fruit began to appear. The elegant, tapered leaves and the shape of the fruit roused our suspicions. Wouldn’t it be funny, we mused, if it turned out to be a peach! Not that it would be edible even if it were. Anyway, the green fruit dropped to the ground by July, and we thought no more of it.
It took a couple more years for the tree to build up enough steam to carry its load all the way through the summer, and we watched as the fruit fattened and turned yellow. I tasted it mid-August – sour and puckery. Oh well, I thought, at least it looks nice. By mid-fall, though, the remaining fruit had developed a deep rosy blush. Wasps and worms swiftly overtook them, but I picked one anyway and cut away the bad parts. We shared a bite and goggled. It was, in fact, a peach – despite everything- and a good one. Not that we were ever likely to get much of a crop.
This year, a mild spring sun shone on the tree, followed by steady rains and then weeks of June drought. There were what seemed like endless humid days, and wave upon wave of mosquitoes. The tree took it upon itself to fruit abundantly. While the kids went to camp, the fruit grew heavy. When they went back to school, the laden branches bent clear to the ground. Again I tried one while it was still yellow, and that first fruit was as hard and sour as the one the year before.
A month passed without change – and then, just as the days began to shorten, something shifted. A troop of inspector wasps arrived, and when I lifted one of the poor burdened branches, I found flattened, aromatic fruit littering the ground beneath. The chickens had a carnival that night, and so did we.
So began a decadent fortnight: every day, I picked ripe peaches and cleaned up the drops for the chickens. We ate what we could and baked the rest into cobblers, but still, there were so many and they were so perishable, I couldn’t keep up. There was at least a bushel, but I doubt we ended up eating half.
Bit by bit, the branches began to unbend, rising gracefully – and, I thought, gratefully – off the ground, until one day in the second week of October there was but one peach left. It glowed with sunset colors, it was already a little overripe, and everything that crawled or flew circled nearby, waiting for it to drop. But it was mine.
I brought it inside the house, and its fragrance filled the quiet kitchen. I ran my thumb over its slightly wrinkled skin one last time, and halved it with my paring knife. The skin slid off like a silk chemise; the flesh was yellower than a mango, and just as juicy. It was the last peach, and it was as full of life and sweetness as the first peach had been of bitterness, or futility.
I still don’t know how that peach tree arrived in our yard 6 years ago. I suppose one of us was sitting on the porch steps on a summer afternoon, juice dribbling down our chin. I suppose that one of us carelessly tossed a pit away, too lazy to go inside and put it in the compost, or too sticky-fingered to turn the doorknob.
I sometimes feel like apologizing to the tree – for not knowing how it came about, for trying to chop it down, for feeding it with nothing but doubt and surprise all these years.
But the tree doesn’t seem to care whether it’s a mystery, a fluke, or a symbol of forgiveness. It’s nothing more than life itself – unasked for, unremarked upon, yet in the end, more than one might ever think to ask.
The evening we moved to Leverett from the city was a cloudless one. As we turned onto the road where our new, old house waited for us, carillon bells began to peal. My husband looked at the clean white clapboard church through the window of our moving van. “I never dreamed our escape could be so painless,” said he.
It wasn’t really an escape. We were simply making a common trade: we were leaving a busy, two-income life in a tiny city apartment for a slower, gentler life in the country. And although neither of us was particularly religious, the chiming of the church felt like a blessing.
The church bells, we soon learned, rang out every night at 6 pm. They were one element that would remain the same in a life whose structure soon began to shift from month to month. There was a market crash, and a scramble for employment. There was a first child, and then a second. And there was construction – endless, crazy-making construction. For a week or two we had nothing but a tarp for a roof, and the bells sounded a lot louder than usual.
I liked to imagine that some ancient artisan in a leather apron was hammering out those bell songs in the steeple. In fact, the Leverett carillon is digital – a CD, a stereo, and some powerful speakers. But I didn’t know that (or so much else) at the time. And at any rate, it was as steadfast and as reliable as if it were keeping the time for a medieval village.
Every night the unhurried sound of old hymns came drifting to our house. Sometimes we noticed them, sometimes we didn’t. Whether it was a late bright summer evening or a cold, dark winter evening, the bells rang out just the same.
Dinner was always on its way to the table or almost there. As the notes resounded overhead, I would hustle through the last stages of prep. And sometimes I was too busy, cleaning up spills or rooting furiously through the vegetable drawer for parsley to hear them at all.
But most often it would happen while I was standing at the grill. The smoke rose up blue and lazy as I tested a skirt steak for doneness with my fingertip. In my other hand I held a cold beer. The day’s last clouds followed the sun in its westward descent over the pond. As pleasant as the moment was, it seemed as though I was waiting for something.
And then, after all, it came – as welcome as the crack of an egg, as the clink of ice, as the sizzle and pop of thick-sliced bacon. Long, slow peals fell upon the smoke-laden air as the Leverett bells began to sound.
This, I thought, is life. This, I thought, is peace. The notes will fade, the meal will disappear. Like music and like food, our own lives last only a moment. But what a moment! The ordinary peace of waking life is not a silent peace. It’s full of sound and flavor, full of light and heat. Surely even the plainest hour is worth some celebration – even if it’s only marked by the pouring of a drink, the lifting of a fork, the ringing of a bell.
There is almost nothing I love better than radish butter on toast, on a cool spring morning when the radishes are new.
First you toast the bread, on just one side. How do you toast it on just one side? You use a toaster oven, laying the slice on a piece of foil or a tray, so the down side is protected. The nubbly, nutty, toothy crumb of multi-grain bread suits the purpose better than anything else I can imagine.
While the bread is toasting, you slice very cold unsalted butter as finely as you can, 1/32nd of an inch thick. It’s going to melt, but just barely. If your knife’s not sharp, you can use a peeler. Or grate it on a box cutter.
When the toast is just stiff and barely gilded on its up side, you take it out and wave it around a bit till it’s only just warm to the touch. The butter goes on the untoasted side, where it clings and subsides a little, but doesn’t melt.
Next you salt the butter just enough. (With Maldon salt if you’ve got it and like it, or any other salt if you don’t.)
Then you shingle on the radishes, sliced just as fine as you can so you can see the watery morning light through them. These are two French breakfast radishes I just rooted from their beds. One was imperfect – dented, stained, and crooked – before it met the knife. But when you take that first bite, your eyes closing with your teeth, you see that what seemed broken was actually whole all along.