Making Dinner

(re-post)

One of the rare times I grumble a bit about too much of something nice is while preparing spinach for a salad:   the leaves were fresh and green and when freed from the large twist tie that kept them in a bunch, they made a large, colourful mound on the counter.   

In the past I have simply grabbed a knife, held the bunch down, and chopped off the leaves.  But stems - lots! - get left with the leaves and leaves - lots! - get left with the stems.  This day I wanted only the leaves.  So one by one each stem got picked up and each leaf got separated from it.  Seven hundred and forty-nine times. 

I'm teasing.  I wasn't counting.  Focusing on the moment brings the awareness of each action and there were a few moments of wishing there wasn't quite so much spinach!

The door to the deck was open wide;  the temperature was thirteen degrees Centigrade;  the sun was beginning to set in its early December glide toward the shortest day of the year.  The daycare three or four houses away must have been having a Christmas party because the children were still all there and outdoors and I could hear their voices talking and laughing.  The bird feeders were unoccupied.  Picking off leaves, one by one, in such mild weather,  lets the eyes wander outside through the open door.  Lets the gloaming be watched and experienced.  Like dawn, there is no other time of the day quite like it.  Like dawn, it is a series of events, subtle changes, step-by-step shifts.

The spinach got washed and spun dry.  Mushrooms got chopped and fried lightly until their fragrance and their juice was released and then the heat turned up for a short time to bring about some crispiness.  The hardboiled egg was peeled; olive oil, vinegar and a bit of sugar was shaken to a simple dressing  in a small glass jar.  Dusk was progressing and I had to turn on a light to find the bacon bits in the spice rack.  Once found, the light got turned off.  Here is what the salad looked like, assembled, not yet tossed.

Small potatoes were sliced thinly and put in the  frying pan that had done the mushrooms, but first they were held and admired because they were from the garden, harvested several weeks ago, harvested now from the bottom drawer in the frig.  Once they were browned on one side they got flipped and a  space made in their midst for a frozen fillet of atlantic salmon  put skin side down, the heat turned up, a cover put over fish and taters.  The sound and the scent of the fish told me when it was ready to be turned over, the potatoes removed,  a couple splashes of lemon juice poured over the fish for the final few moments of cooking.

The spinach salad had some feta cheese crumbled and added at the last minute; it met with approval.

 

Posted on December 07, 2007 at 05:30 AM | Permalink

 

One of the rare times I grumble a bit about too much of something nice is while preparing spinach for a salad:   the leaves were fresh and green and when freed from the large twist tie that kept them in a bunch, they made a large, colourful mound on the counter.   

In the past I have simply grabbed a knife, held the bunch down, and chopped off the leaves.  But stems - lots! - get left with the leaves and leaves - lots! - get left with the stems.  This day I wanted only the leaves.  So one by one each stem got picked up and each leaf got separated from it.  Seven hundred and forty-nine times. 

I'm teasing.  I wasn't counting.  Focusing on the moment brings the awareness of each action and there were a few moments of wishing there wasn't quite so much spinach!

The door to the deck was open wide;  the temperature was thirteen degrees Centigrade;  the sun was beginning to set in its early December glide toward the shortest day of the year.  The daycare three or four houses away must have been having a Christmas party because the children were still all there and outdoors and I could hear their voices talking and laughing.  The bird feeders were unoccupied.  Picking off leaves, one by one, in such mild weather,  lets the eyes wander outside through the open door.  Lets the gloaming be watched and experienced.  Like dawn, there is no other time of the day quite like it.  Like dawn, it is a series of events, subtle changes, step-by-step shifts.

The spinach got washed and spun dry.  Mushrooms got chopped and fried lightly until their fragrance and their juice was released and then the heat turned up for a short time to bring about some crispiness.  The hardboiled egg was peeled; olive oil, vinegar and a bit of sugar was shaken to a simple dressing  in a small glass jar.  Dusk was progressing and I had to turn on a light to find the bacon bits in the spice rack.  Once found, the light got turned off.  Here is what the salad looked like, assembled, not yet tossed.

Small potatoes were sliced thinly and put in the  frying pan that had done the mushrooms, but first they were held and admired because they were from the garden, harvested several weeks ago, harvested now from the bottom drawer in the frig.  Once they were browned on one side they got flipped and a  space made in their midst for a frozen fillet of atlantic salmon  put skin side down, the heat turned up, a cover put over fish and taters.  The sound and the scent of the fish told me when it was ready to be turned over, the potatoes removed,  a couple splashes of lemon juice poured over the fish for the final few moments of cooking.

The spinach salad had some feta cheese crumbled and added at the last minute; it met with approval.