Daisy's Gremolata Roasted Chicken

Is it weird for this post to be inspired by a psychotic?

I could have told you that it was inspired by the beauty of Spring and my overflowing herb box, currently bursting with the purple pom poms of chive plants, thyme, rosemary and sage. That would be true. It would also be the politically correct reason to write about a Spring gremolata roasted chicken.

That reason, to me, would be lovely but mundane. So, I'll tell you the other version of the story, which is that I'm mad about our local library, which lets me check out all sorts of books, from a visual explanation by Isaac Asimov about what happens after you flush the toilet (for the three-year-old in the house, of course) to guides on traditional fermentation methods (for me).

About three weeks ago, just because I suddenly thought of it (as in: "Why haven't I ever read that? I never saw the movie either."), I decided to borrow a copy of Susannah Kaysen's Girl Interrupted. I had no expectations, just a few vague images of young Winona Ryder and Angelina Jolie in my mind, as I ran the bar code under the blue light of the scanner at the self-checkout desk.

I ended up being completely surprised by this book.

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Just as a side note, once you have been educated and trained as a mental health clinician and then spend many years actually practicing, there are certain ways of thinking that fortunately or unfortunately become innate to you. I've heard people, teachers in my academic program in fact, refer to this as THINKING PSYCHOLOGICALLY.

You might be talking to someone at a barbecue, someone you've heard things about, and based on those things, along with your actual interaction begin wondering what is really going on with this person. What could his or her diagnosis be? According to the DSM-IV TR (the Diagnostic and Statistic Manual), that is. I suppose this might be the reason why, when I used to tell people who didn't really know me or had just met me, that I was a therapist, they would either start asking me about a "friend" of theirs, or back away silently, while tightly gripping their cheese burgers.

Okay, so this is just to say that I still have a little bit of that thinking psychologically problem going on most of the time, even after not practicing as a clinician for three years now.

But let's get back to Girl, Interrupted, shall we?

The writing is lean, truthful and spot on. Whether Ms. Kaysen is describing a teenage girl having a breakdown after she finally realizes that half her face has been burned off or the suffocating lack of fresh air in inmate rooms, she doesn't flinch. She tells us about being a teen in a terribly alienating place and lonely situation with the clear eyes of time's passage and much empathy.

Even more, she is able to reflect on the entirety of two years spent in a mental institution in the sixties and its long-term effects on her life. Here's one: she couldn't get a telephone line installed in her new apartment and her former psychiatrist had to write a note to the phone company explaining that she was no longer crazy and in fact, reliable. At the same time, she still questions her version of the events. Was this how it really happened? Is her memory faulty? Was she just experiencing a more intense version of adolescence? Does she sound crazy after all?

There is a strange, sad and laugh-out-loud section earlier on in the book about her fellow inmate, Daisy, who only makes temporary, seasonal visits to the ward:

“Daisy had two passions: Laxatives and Chicken. Every morning she presented herself at the nursing station and drummed her fingers, pale and stained with nicotine, on the counter, impatient for laxatives...

Twice a week her squat potato-face father brought a whole chicken roasted by her mother and wrapped in aluminum foil. Daisy would hold the chicken in her lap and fondle it through the foil, darting her eyes around the room, eager for her father to leave so she could get going on the chicken.”

— Girl Interrupted, Susannah Kaysen

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Since I Google nearly everything these days, I couldn't help Googling Daisy. I found women and girls floating within the Internet vespers making suppositions about what was wrong with Daisy, what kind of diagnosis she might've had.

As I was immersed in their questions, I suddenly remembered one of my first supervisors at the psychoanalytic site where I trained telling us that psychotics often don't like to bathe. According to her, this was because they fear that they are washing themselves away, everything disappearing down the drain. Being dirty, having the concrete sensation of smelling one's own odor could hold together a person in psychosis, our unflappable supervisor explained. I remembered thinking about the strangeness of that and trying to understand it.

To me, it seems Daisy's chicken holds a similar function as the concept of a psychotic foregoing showering. Even in the parallel universe that is psychosis, the human instinct is to preserve the self that anchors us to actual reality. Daisy does that through the basics of the body: food, eating and yes, elimination. In a sense, the chicken keeps Daisy intact and alive, held together as some form of a human being.

So for those making claims that food is more than merely food, well. They are quite right. Food is memory, emotional sustenance. Food is what holds us together individually and communally. It reminds us that we are indeed bona fide human beings.

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Daisy's Gremolata Roasted Chicken

The question is, did Daisy's mother have some magical method of roasting chickens that made them entirely irresistible and worthy of caresses? Did she smother them in butter or oil? Stuff them with herbs? Unless one of us is able to speak directly to her, I suppose we will never really know. This very simple recipe delivers a crispy-skinned version which I hope Daisy would have liked.

Serves 3-4.

Ingredients
A 3 1/2 to 4 lb. chicken, hopefully organic and free-range
1/2 cup minced Italian parsley
Zest of one lemon, finely minced
3 tablespoons finely minced young garlic, white and light green parts only (or 1-2 cloves garlic)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons clarified butter or ghee

Additional kosher salt and pepper
Additional parsley and young garlic greens, optional

Instructions
Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Rinse chicken. Pat dry and truss if you wish. Season all sides generously with salt and pepper, making sure to season the cavity as well.

Make your gremolata by combining the parsley, lemon zest, garlic, salt and pepper with clarified butter or ghee. Gently loosen chicken breast skin from the cavity edge using your fingertips. In the pockets you have created, one on each side, stuff with the gremolata.

Quarter the lemon and stuff as many pieces as you can fit into the cavity of the chicken. If there is additional room, add some parsley stems and if you have any, garlic greens are nice as well.

Place chicken legs-first into your hot oven. Allow to roast for 50-60 minutes or until the innermost part of the thigh reaches 165 degrees. Allow to rest for 10-15 minutes before carving and serving.

Griddled Asparagus with Peri-Peri (Berbere)

Each morning, I pull aside the dining room curtains, glancing quickly into the woods. It's a habit, part of the routine of starting the day. Usually there's not much there other than the cottonwoods, rhododendrons, and cedar trees, but it's Spring, so at the moment, the occasional deer or bunny can be found next to our fence in a flattened outcropping just at the edge of the woods.

From this same window yesterday, I watched a doe who couldn't see or smell me. I'd had my eye on it earlier in the week, but it was hard to know, unless the creature had unusual markings or perhaps an injury, if it was the same deer from one day to the next. The last time I saw her -- my doe, a Columbian black-tailed deer -- she'd spent a long time lying on the one flattened spot, a deer bed by the fence.

Then, she was gone.

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When I saw her again the following morning, she stepped into the sunlight, this time with a fawn whose tan coat was dappled with white. It was the approximate size of my neighbor's barky, fou-fou shelter dog, Chloe. The fawn stood so close to the doe that it appeared to be leaning against her. Was this the same deer, only now with a newborn? The doe lowered her head and began licking the fawn. Slowly, carefully.

I was held there by the tenderness she showed the fawn. It was so normal, basic and touching. Of course a mother has to clean her young. I was still gripping an edge of the window curtain when my three-year-old came up behind me. In his small voice, he began asking me a series of questions.

"Why they here? What they doing? Where they going? What they eat? Where they sleep at night?"

Ah, deer existentialism via a toddler. All before 7 a.m.

I thought of what the British child development and parenting authority, Penelope Leach, writes in her ever-sensible classic, Your Baby and Child:

“Several hundred ‘why’ questions per day... can be very wearing. But remember that the child is asking because he needs to know. He is adding to his store of knowledge and understanding...’Why’s’ are a clear sign of growing up.”

Growing up or not, at the moment, I wasn't sure how to answer his questions, so I deflected them. I asked him if he remembered being a baby like the fawn. A different set of questions then ensued about his infancy, questions I was certainly qualified to answer.

Once all that was settled, Kingston and I continued to watch the woods. The two animals remained in our view, silent in their interactions. The doe began to turn. She took a few steps without looking back. The fawn followed, wobbling on its spindly new legs. It stepped behind her and into the shadow of the cottonwoods.

When I later visited the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife website to be better prepared for the inevitable moment in the future when I would have to answer more questions about deer, the information I found included this:

“Deer often become very habitual in their activities. They show up at the same time and follow the same trails, taking paths of least resistance. Although deer may be active at any time of day, they are most active near dawn and dusk (a pattern of activity called “crepuscular”). Typically, deer feed in open habitats such as meadows and clearcuts, retreating to more secure areas, such as thickets and closed canopy forests, to rest and chew their cud.

To observe deer, position yourself at dawn or dusk near cover in a good deer-feeding area. Remain absolutely still, because deer are alert for any movement.”

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Tenderness. A doe cleaning her fawn. Shoots of baby lettuces popping up in wild disarray. Thin strands of deep green grass taking over a lawn suddenly bordering on overgrown. Stalks of asparagus pushing through the cool, loamy soil. To me, that's what Spring is all about: beginnings, the quiet moments before the inevitable hurtling toward growth and growing up. 

Asparagus in particular signals the start of all things crisp and green, sweet and bright to come in the warmer months. In recent weeks, the dull green and purple bundles have been making their appearance at our local farmer's market and our family has been happily devouring as much as we can.

You can prepare asparagus any way you want -- on the grill, chopped up and sautéed, even pickled -- and they will taste good. The tender stalks don't need much, a little acid, spice and some fat. Fat adds the requisite richness to the asparagus' lean, grassy flavor, helping it reach its full potential.

My favorite way to make asparagus is to coat the stalks with a flavor bomb of zingy heat and richness, which I then cook on a stovetop grill pan. It's a quick process leaving behind both savory charred bits and a hint of the vegetable's just-cooked freshness.

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Grilled Asparagus with Peri-Peri (Berbere)

This makes enough for two greedy eaters as a vegetarian lunch when served with some crusty bread and cheese or a salad. This is also great inside a brioche bun alone or with some other grilled vegetables and eaten as a sandwich. Peri-peri, also known as Berbere, is an aromatic North African spice mixture that usually includes cayenne, fenugreek, cumin, allspice and coriander. When combined with fat, the flavors somersault around in your mouth and you can't stop eating!

Another thing. Depending on whether you make the peri-peri yourself or use a store-bought version, you'll have more or less salt and heat. Adjust this to suit your own tastes. My peri-peri is from our local co-op and already contains salt.

Ingredients
1 pound fresh asparagus, washed and patted dry
4 tablespoons mayonnaise, good store-bought or homemade
2 teaspoons peri-peri, adding more if desired
salt, as needed
black pepper, a few grinds
squeeze of lemon juice to finish

Instructions
For thin asparagus stalks, break off tough ends. For thicker stalks, cut the tough ends off. Set aside in a large bowl. (Don't forget to pat your asparagus dry. If it is wet, the spice mixture will slide right off and that will be just sad.)

Mix together mayonnaise, peri-peri, salt (if needed) and pepper. Spoon mixture over the asparagus then use your hands to toss so that all stalks are coated with the mayonnaise mixture. Use your fingers to rub the mayo mixture into the tips of the stalks. You want flavor in every nooks and crannies.

Heat grill pan on high on a stove. Once pan is piping hot, place stalks on the pan, allowing the stalks to cook and char for 2-3 minutes before shaking the pan to move the asaparagus around. Cook for an additional 2 minutes, continuing to turn and move the asparagus. Place on a serving platter and finish with a squeeze of lemon if desired.

The asparagus can be served hot, warm, or at room temperature. It's all delicious.

Mango Celebration Cake

No matter what they say, giving birth is neither easy nor remotely fun. But at the end of it - the beginning, really - when you are holding what looks to be a slightly shriveled, tiny alien in your tired arms, you feel powerful and complete.

Today, I'm not talking about literal birth, as in pushing out a small human, which is what I've done once. And how immediately afterward, I developed the iron-clad certainty that I could do anything to which I set my mind.

I'm talking about starting a blog. Yes, one of the ways in which I am celebrating Mother's Day is by remembering how a year ago, after my neighbor, Heather, kept saying I should start a blog, I actually did it. I birthed this. 

One year. Happy Birthday dear blog!

What an experience it's been, plunking down words and doing my best with making my food shots look appetizing (still working on it, yes indeed). I've been learning and learning about all sorts of things from so many people. Some highlights...

At a food photography workshop this Spring, I had the opportunity to meet other bloggers, writers and photographers, all wonderful folks. The two amazing days together were led by Sara and Hugh Forte of the Sprouted Kitchen. Sara helped me to realize that a tomato looks most beautiful and enticing when you actually cut into it. Her husband, Hugh, provided us with guidance on ways to shape light, among other things. And both of them emphasized the need for an authentic voice, one that is true to you and only you.

I got to meet Molly Wizenberg of Orangette at the Pantry in Seattle in February. In her warm, kind manner, she too stressed authenticity of voice. Actually, I can't stop thinking about the experience I had there and I've been reading the whole of her book, A Homemade Life (I'd only read excerpts before). Oh my, can this woman write. Bravely, beautifully, the way I too want to write about life and all the people and things I love.

Pie crust! I figured out how to make pie crust without fear or anxiety from Kate Lebo and her lively little book, Pie School. If you are as scared of making pie crust as I was (for years), the fear ends now. Just get her book and soon, you'll be dreamily massaging butter into flour (ahhh, so relaxing).

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I don't know what will become of this child, this blog of mine. But I am tending to it the best I can. The British pediatrician and child analyst, D.W. Winnicott, said that as parents, we can ever only be "good enough." The idea is that there might be times when we cannot meet our child's every single need. We may even disappoint him or her completely.

But then that is exactly what children need to grow -- a subtle push toward independence and knowing that even without Mama or Dad, they can manage a few small things on their own. I'm not sure if being "good enough" necessarily applies to blogs, but we'll see.

On Mother's Day, I think it's worth remembering that we can all be mothers, each and every one of us, regardless of age or gender. I firmly believe that to be a mother is to create. Nearly all of us have the capacity to do just that -- to make each day into something, whether it's getting pancakes going to feed the family, stitching together an apron or cooking up a pot of chicken soup. Just bringing something into the world with energy and joy is what matters.

Happy Mother's Day to all the makers and creators out there! Don't forget to just be you. 

Now, let's eat cake.

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Mango Celebration Cake

This cake is adapted from Tessa Kiros. It has become our family's go-to Spring birthday cake, when after a long, dark winter we are dying for something fruity (and not rhubarb) and it's too early yet for strawberries. It's a homely, barely sweet cake which reminds me of the cakes I enjoyed growing up in L.A.'s Chinatown. You can play around with the fruit fillings. Kiwi, banana, strawberries. Go a little crazy. If you like a weightier topping than whipped cream alone, the addition of some mascarpone is also delicious.

Serves 8-10

Ingredients
1 3/4 cups (164 g) all-purpose flour
3/4 cups (151 g) granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
3 teaspoons baking powder, divided (see below)
1 1/2 sticks (12 tablespoons) unsalted butter, melted
3/4 cup warm whole milk
4 large eggs, separated
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

3 medium-sized, ripe mangos
1/2 teaspoon lime juice
3 tablespoons powdered sugar
2 cups heavy whipping cream

Instructions
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour an 8 1/2" springform pan.

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, salt and 1 teaspoon of the baking powder. Stir in the melted butter and then the milk. Add the egg yolks and vanilla. Beat well.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites to soft peaks, incorporating the remaining 2 teaspoons of baking powder after the whites have foamed up and begun to turn opaque and fluffy. Fold the whites into the cake mixture using the largest spatula you have.

Pour the batter into your prepared pan. Bake for about 1 hour, or until a skewer inserted in the middle comes out clean. The top should be crisp and golden. Remove the cake from the oven and allow it to cool on a rack. Once the cake has cooled, slice it in half and place the bottom on a serving platter or cake stand.

Peel the mangoes. Cut one mango into lengthwise slices about 1/4" thick. Set aside. Dice the remaining two mangoes (about 1 1/2 cups), sprinkle with lime juice, and place in a medium bowl.

Whisk heavy whipping cream and powdered sugar together until it forms stiff peaks. Mix slightly less than half of the whipping cream in with the diced mango. Spread this mango mixture onto the bottom half of the cake. Place the top half on the mango mixture. Scoop the remaining whipped cream onto the top of the cake and sides. Decorate the cake with the mango slices.

Honey Graham Snack Bars

My friend Kari the travel writer came over with her kids, Grace and Sam, not too long ago.

These kids are full of energy. I mean, taking every toy vehicle available, from the Skuut to the Plasma Car to the old tricycle down the steepest driveway in the neighborhood and going as fast as they can to upending every toy bin in my son's playroom kind of energy. Never. A. Dull. Moment.

They're all about living fully, joyfully. And I love it. My son, Kingston, is a very cautious kind of child, so I think it's great for him to have time with them. We all need some balance, even the three-year-olds among us. 

On the late afternoon that they came over, the plan was to wander together to the pond about half a mile away, fling some old bread at the mallards and wood ducks then come back for a dinner of lentil soup, which I had already prepared.

Pretty simple, right?

Right. If you don't count Sam losing his boot in the pond when, in a fit of enthusiastic jumping and kicking, the blue rubber shoe flew off toward the water, landing with a loud splash, the ducks flapping and quacking in hysteria. (And they thought they we only getting bread!) Then, Kari in her own fit of motherly resourcefulness grabbing Grace's "leader stick," a tree branch she had collected somewhere along the way, to snag the boot and pull it back to shore.

Sam didn't have socks on to start with, so our solution was to take a clean doggy poop bag (oh yeah, good thing the dog was with us), which served as a makeshift sock once it was shoved into the sodden boot. Whew.

We squished along for a bit after that until we all realized that we were hungry! As I searched the pockets of my no-longer-waterproof raincoat, nothing came up. Nope, just a couple of dirty tissues (gross) and an old Cliff bar wrapper, remnants of our last adventure out.

Kari, on the other hand, was well prepared (probably as a result of her years of traveling all over the world). She handed out tidbits of energy bars made of coconut and oats and dried fruit and all sorts of tasty and nutritious things that sustained our little group.

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After we got home and the soup was eaten, but before Grace started singing songs from Frozen for us, I decided that I should be better prepared for the next walk.

So, I made these. I wasn't sure if I should call them bars or a cake. You will find, should you make them, that they are either a dense cake or cakey bars. Whatever you call them, they are packed with enough fruit and grains to sustain you during a long walk, hike, or any other activity that floats your boot. (Sorry!)

Honey Graham Snack Bars

Makes 9 bars

Ingredients
1/2 cup quick-cooking oats
1/2 cup walnuts
1/4 cup golden raisins
1/4 cup dried cranberries
1/4 cup dried blueberries
2/3 cup graham flour (or, substitute whole wheat flour)
2 tablespoons flaxseed meal
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
2 large eggs
1/2 cup whole milk
3 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons olive oil

Optional:
2 ounces of white chocolate, for drizzling on the finished bars

Instructions
Line an 8-inch square baking pan with foil. Spray with nonstick cooking spray.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Spread the walnuts on a rimmed baking sheet and bake in preheated oven for about 8 minutes, until golden and fragrant. Allow to cool a few minutes, then coarsely chop.

Transfer nuts to a large bowl then add the oats and dried fruit. Add the flour, flaxseed meal, baking powder, baking soda, and salt to the oats mixture.

In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs, whole milk, honey and olive oil. Add egg mixture to the oats mixture and stir until blended. Spread the batter evenly in the prepared pan.

Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the edges are beginning to brown. When an inserted toothpick comes out clean, it's done. Transfer to a wire rack and cool completely.

When cool, use the liner to lift the cooked mixture from the pan and transfer to a cutting board. Cut into 9 bars. If you like smaller bars, cut them smaller.

If you'd like to gild the lily, melt white chocolate in the microwave for 30 seconds, then check. If your white chocolate needs additional time, add another 25 seconds. Drizzle the melted white chocolate over your bars for a rustic look and a delicious touch. The white chocolate will re-harden, allowing you to wrap the bars to take with you on your next adventure.

Adapted from Power Hungry.

Smokey Sweet Potato, Collard and Cheddar Pancakes

April is an iffy month around here. For a few days at a time sun and warmth appears, fanning our hopes for the ultimate end of winter-like weather. Then, rain and coolness show up again, underscoring the basic changeable nature of our existence. 

That was the case a couple of weeks ago when I was driving down to Seattle with my husband and son. About 30 miles south, as we entered Skagit County, we headed straight into a storm. Ice pounded the top of our truck. Our windshield vibrated as it repelled angry chunks of hail. We watched cars in front of us skidding off the ice-covered road, a State patrol officer standing just beyond his vehicle to the side, as if waiting for the inevitable.

When we arrived in the Emerald City, the sky was almost cloudless, blue. The city was warm, filled with sunlight.

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Strange, but the person who popped into my head in the middle of that ice storm wasn't my mother, my brother, or any of my good friends. It wasn't a version of what one might call God. Instead, it was a teenaged girl from South Central.

I met Della about an eon ago, at my first paying job out of grad school, when I was just emerging from a dark time in my personal life. The job I got was as a mental health therapist in a Level-12 residential facility for pregnant and parenting teens in the middle of Los Angeles. At any given time, there were 60 adolescent girls and 30 babies and infants. The girls were monitored 24 hours a day.

As you might imagine, this was a recipe for frequent chaos, including nightly "incidents" forming a long list that was read to us by the Mental Health Director each morning. Sometimes girls would barricade themselves in their rooms, threatening to smash any remaining furniture not already pushed against the door. Or, they declared that they were planning to hurt themselves, maybe with a razor blade, a knife, whatever it took.

Other times, the disturbances were more along the lines of teenage pranks, such as when two of the residents collected enough packets of ketchup and mustard from the cafeteria to spell out "FUCK YOU" in huge letters across the door and window of the Facility Director's office.

I got to hear the girls' stories, either directly from them, reading their case files or talking to their social workers. Unsurprisingly, most of them had been abused, sexually and otherwise, sometimes by people they should have been able to trust, other times by strangers.

No matter what they had been through, they mostly acted tough as Teflon, even as they begged us to take them for walks off campus (they could only leave with a staff member) to the closest shopping destination, Smart & Final. There, still dressed in their usual pajama pants and slippers, they would buy oversized packages of Hot Cheetos and massive tubs of Red Vines. No matter what they'd been through, in some basic ways, they were still just teens.

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Della was a lot like the other girls. She had landed in foster care when her grandmother, who had been her caregiver, went to prison for shooting her husband after he'd beaten her for years. When Della became pregnant at the age of fifteen, she was placed in our facility. 

As her assigned therapist, I would go to see Della in her room, which she shared with her daughter, Soraya. Sometimes we folded clothes together, picked things up off the floor, and listened to music. For much of the time at the beginning of our relationship though, we hardly spoke at all. I would show up several times a week, rapping lightly on her door. She put up with my presence, even if it was one of silence. That was part of the deal with living there; they all had to tolerate such visits.

I kept showing up because it was my job, but in time I also grew to respect the gentle way Della spoke to her daughter, the patience with which she would work a small comb through Soraya's hair, even when she squirmed and squirmed. One day, while quietly dabbing Vaseline onto Soraya's scalp, Della suddenly turned and asked me if I wanted to learn how to braid hair. She meant black hair. I said yes and settled in next to them. From that day on, the bouts of silence between us began to lessen.

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During each of the Director's morning recitations of the previous night's chaotic events, Della's name rarely came up. She tended to stick to herself and focus on taking care of her daughter.

Then one morning I walked into our morning meeting to hear Della being discussed. She had been passing a petition around to demand a change in the cafeteria's food. We all happened to eat there, since it was difficult to leave the grounds for lunch. Our work days also typically ran well past dinnertime, so we usually just ate dinner with the girls in the cafeteria.

Della had spoken to the others. Her petition argued that the food being served was "too white" and that change was necessary. Most of the girls in the residence were either African-American or Hispanic and Della believed the food should reflect that. The menu should include things such as the sweet potatoes and collard greens her grandmother cooked for her and burritos, tacos and other more familiar items for the Hispanic residents.

We therapists were impressed by Della's efforts and in the end, the cafeteria menu was changed to reflect the demands of the petition (signed by nearly all of the girls). 

Della's petition might seem like a small thing. It wasn't. For someone who was used to being treated as less than, making a demand such as this took courage and some understanding that food provides us with much more than physical sustenance. It can also be a forceful signifier of who we are, where we come from and where we have been.

I'm still not entirely sure why I thought of Della that day, but I am glad that I did. She taught me a lot about what it takes to be a mother, especially under extremely difficult circumstances. Perhaps an image of her was etched long ago, deep within my brain, as a symbol of what it means to survive and continue on. 

I don't know where Della is anymore. But, I made this dish just for her.

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Smoked Sweet Potato, Collard and Cheddar Pancakes (for Della)

Makes about 10 3-inch pancakes

Ingredients
1 small sweet potato, cut into ribbons with a peeler or on a mandolin
1 bunch collard greens, tough stems removed, leaves rolled up and sliced into thin ribbons
1/4 head of a small green cabbage, core removed finely shredded
2 scallions, thinly sliced on the diagonal
1/2 cup flour (all-purpose or brown rice flour, for a gluten-free product)
1/2 cup aged cheddar, grated
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/2 teaspoon (regular) paprika
1/2 teaspoon sea salt
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1 large egg
1/4 cup water
Olive oil, for cooking the pancakes

To finish:
Additional salt, to taste
Pepper, to taste
Crème fraiche
Finely chopped chives or scallions

Instructions
Combine prepped sweet potato, collard greens, cabbage, scallions and cheddar in a large bowl. Set aside. In another bowl, combine flour, both types of paprika, salt and cayenne. Add flour mixture to the vegetables, and combine gently with your hands or a pair of tongs. You want to work the mixture through all of the vegetables. Beat eggs in a small bowl then add water. Add egg mixture to the vegetables and mix gently but well. Again, hands or tongs work well for this task. Allow mixture to sit for 5 or 10 minutes.

In the meantime, heat a skillet over medium heat (if you're in a hurry, or just more efficient than I am, use two skillets, dividing the veggie mixture). Add a teaspoon of oil to the heated pan and swirl. Add spoonfuls of the vegetable mixture to the pan, forming approximately 3-inch pancakes. Don't overcrowd them. Cook the first side for 6 minutes, flip and cook the other side an additional 6 minutes. Each side should be well browned. Continue doing this with the remaining veggie mixture until you have cooked it all.

Serve pancakes with any additional salt (if you feel it needs it), pepper, and if you like, a dollop of crème fraiche followed by an enthusiastic sprinkling of chives or scallions.

*Note: These pancakes do not crisp up all the way through, but remain (pleasingly) soft-ish in center.

Adapted from Marc Masumoto's Okonomiyaki recipe.