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I have a little food commentary on New England Public Radio today–these run about once every couple of months (or when I get around to writing them). I really enjoy the whole process of doing these–drafting them in the quiet of the house, trying to write in radio-speak instead of my usual wrought style, editing them down with brilliant producer Jill Kaufman, recording them on the big mike while waving at John Montanari, who’s usually doing his show there on the other side of the glass studio window.
And I love the title Jill gave this one: Autumn Breeze Distracting for Commentator T. Susan Chang. Ain’t it just!
Hear the commentary here.
Somehow I missed this when it ran in the Globe last week–I think because the online version didn’t have my name tagged on it, so my alerts didn’t catch it.
It’s a fun romp through the cuisines of many nations. Also one of the fussier cookbooks I’ve reviewed of late.
Read the review of Cindy’s Supper Club here.
No, it’s not summer any more. But one summer souvenir that will be coming right along with me into the fall and winter is the summer roll. Or, more specifically, the re-invented sandwich wrapped in rice paper.
After being unaccountably bashful about rice paper for years, I finally took the plunge and discovered what a boon it is for those of us who fall somewhere in between wanting to take the bread off the sandwich and just giving up and having a salad.
Plus, they’re way easy to pack in a lunchbox.
It’s been silent and cool in the household these first few weeks since the kids have returned to school. The only sound has been the subdued but furious clacking of the keyboard as I catch up on stories I scheduled for the fall re-entry, plus maybe the occasional gasp of bemusement when I’m checking in with the ongoing election coverage.
In the garden, late blight has romped through Bed Number Two, sparing only a few last Sungold cherry tomatoes. Squash vine borers have claimed the zucchini and pumpkins. The garlic and fingerlings are out of the ground, replaced by a buckwheat cover crop. But the tender, slender Nickel haricots are still bearing pods, and great fans of chard and kale still wave over Bed Five. Along with the inevitable failures, there is always at least one bewildering success, and this year I have oceans of flat-leaf parsley I have no idea what to do with.
The once-miniature chicks are now 19 week old, “point of lay” pullets. I know not to expect eggs until November, but I can’t help checking the nests every day anyway. One Patch has the brilliant red comb and wattles of a fully developed young hen, and is even doing the “egg squat”–squatting submissively when you put out your hand to pet her, an indication of maturity. And I heard someone singing the “egg song” (the distinctive cackling of a hen who’s just laid an egg) the other day, although no egg was to be found. I wonder if the singer imagined she had laid the wooden “teaching” egg I put in the nests to show the girls where to set…!
We almost lost Spalty, our chestnut and russet-colored Ameraucana, a couple of weeks ago, when she swallowed some mystery object she shouldn’t have. She went from hiccuping to choking in the space of a few minutes, and lay down, gasping for air, with what seemed like every intention of expiring. We frantically called our neighbor Macaylla, the chicken guru, who urged us not to lose hope. We isolated Spalty in the movable chicken ark overnight, fearing the worst. But in the morning she was up and about, pecking and fluttering, and her labored breathing was gone by the following evening.
Meanwhile, Husby has taken on the excavation of our decrepit entryway and demolition of our sagging, propped-up porch roof in preparation for a new porch (a 12-year-old dream at last coming true). The 6th grader is entering fencing tournaments. The 1st grader has homework for the first time.
I often feel in the quiet of September, dreaming up a new workload, sipping my coffee, watching the kids walk down the street to school a few inches taller than the previous spring, that I too am being re-invented. In the coming year I don’t know what stories I’ll tell, what thresholds I’ll cross, or how I’ll turn out in the end–but even the freedom not to know seems unaccountably precious and rare.