But the garden at the school where I teach has changed all of that. And it’s not just parsley that is growing like delicious kudzu: it’s basil, dill, cilantro, mint and rosemary. I am embarrassed to admit to my former ignorance here, but herbs are not limited to being tiny sprouts—they can be vegetation at its most expansive.

This herbal bounty is something I have never enjoyed. In fact, I’ve always sort of detested fresh herbs, if only because a bunch can cost upwards of $5 to enhance a single dish before slipping into the darkest corner of my crisper, only to be found black and mushy months later. I wonder how many dollars have rotted in my refrigerator in the form of un-tapped flavor. Those were the herbs that I cursed.

What I really should have regretted was my dependence on the grocery store. But thanks be to the parsley shrub, I have been set free. Herbs growing in this quantity never go bad because they are always content: sucking water, swaying in the breeze, happily rooted and alive. Now that I have them, I never cook without them. I even keep bunches on my dashboard to keep the car smelling good. Try that with an overpriced basil leaf.

I feel wealthy, really. Sort of spoiled. But I have vastly changed my view of planting: I’ll never have a garden without rows of my favorites: basil, parsley, oregano, thyme and dill. I will plant them like lettuce. I realize that someday I may not be lucky enough to have herbs growing so abundantly in March, in which case, I’ll be sure to build an extra bed so that my summer crop can be dried and hoarded through a more traditional winter.

So what do I do with so many herbs to spare? Aside from making everything with meunière sauce, I like to make dips. Pesto is an obvious choice, but some parsley butter can be just as satisfying—especially when spread on a homegrown radish. I was recently inspired by Melissa Clark’s Greek Goddess dip, a spin off the more typical Green Goddess dip. She made it in anticipation of the Super bowl, which was easily accommodated by my Texas garden. That said, if I ever live on the east coast again, I won’t be making this much before June.

If you can’t wait for the season, or simply don’t have the requisite herbs growing nearby, make enough of this dip to use up whatever fresh herbs you buy: it’s really extraordinary stuff and  will practically guarantee that those extra basil leaves don’t rot forgotten.

Herb Dip with Feta and Greek Yogurt

Adapted from Melissa Clark, Serves 6-8

½ cup packed fresh dill
½ cup packed fresh mint
½ cup packed fresh parsley
½ cup packed fresh basil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 scallions, white and green parts, sliced
1 ½ tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ cup crumbled feta cheese
½ cup Greek yogurt (preferably 2%)
1/4 c cream cheese, optional
Salt and pepper to taste

Raw chopped vegetables (radishes!) or pita chips, for serving.

Place herbs, garlic, scallions, lemon juice and a pinch of salt in a food processor, pulsing until finely chopped.

With food processor on low, drizzle in olive oil until blended. Add feta and pulse until smooth. Add cream cheese (if using), and pulse until smooth. Finally, pulse in yogurt. Add salt, pepper and lemon juice according to your taste.

Serve dip cold with vegetables or pita chips. This dip can be stored in the refrigerator for a few days—it also goes well on a toasted onion bagel for lunch.

Melissa Clark first pointed out this interesting distinction in 2008, in a recipe that inspired my original food blog, TASTE. She asked a friendly pastry chef what the distinction between cupcakes and muffins really was. And the answer—very little. Except the obvious things we all recognize: muffins happen at breakfast. And they usually don’t have thick coats of frosting. Muffins are a little bit crispy around the edges, maybe, and tend to have a bit of texture somewhere… nuts or something. Nobody ever puts anything in the batter of a cupcake—except maybe cream filling.

So, even if the batter is about the same, quite a few important distinctions set these pastries apart from their ‘sweeter’ kin. These are one of the best possible hybrids: gingerbread cake in the shape of a cupcake, with key attributes of a muffin. If that’s not healthy, I don’t know what is. Best of all, they are a total meal/snack hybrid, very well accompanied by a smear of crunchy peanut butter at about 4pm.

The fact that these are more cake than muffin will become quickly apparent to the cook. The batter is extremely wet and somewhat labor intensive as far as muffins go. This is no, throw-wet-and-dry-together-and-stir affair. So don’t worry when your baking soda renders your molasses and oil a murky fizz. Fret not when you pour your liquid dough into your paper muffin cups, and try not to be alarmed by the long cooking time. Remind yourself, for just a second, that these really are miniature gingerbread cakes and then move on. Don’t dwell on the oil or sugar glaze. Just eat them for breakfast as if they were as hale as a bowl of steel cut oats. It all depends on how you think of things.

Like Melissa, I drizzled these with a bit of glaze, just to give them an extra bit of texture. I changed a few things, though. For posterity, I threw in some whole-wheat flour. I also replaced the currants with more pecans, as I am a crunchy fanatic. I couldn’t remember how these went when I baked them for the first time in April, 2008, and I almost added more flour before sending them to the oven as the batter looked too wet. I managed to control myself, which was fortunate—have I mentioned that the batter is meant to be runny? Finally, I undercooked these a touch. I like my breakfast chewy and supple. Just like dessert…

Crunchy Ginger Muffins

Makes 12 diminutive muffins
Time: 1 hour

Butter for greasing muffin tin

1 ¼ teaspoon baking soda
½ cup dark molasses
½ cup vegetable oil
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger
1 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
½ cup sugar
2 teaspoons ground ginger
¾ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch ground cloves
5 tablespoons crystallized ginger, finely chopped
½ cup chopped toasted pecans
1 1/3 cups confectioners’ sugar
3 tablespoons whole milk.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In a medium saucepan, boil ½ c water and pour into a large bowl.

Whisk in baking soda until dissolved, then add molasses and oil.

When mixture is tepid, whisk in eggs and grated ginger.

In a medium sized bowl, whisk flour, sugar, spices and salt.

Gently fold wet ingredients into dry and add pecans and ginger, stirring minimally.

Bake until a toothpick inserted in center of a muffin comes out clean, just under 30 minutes.

Cool in pan then transfer to wire rack.

In the meantime, whisk confectioners’ sugar and whole milk. Spoon glaze evenly over muffins. Sprinkle tops with remaining tablespoon crystallized ginger.

Yield: 1 dozen muffins.

I love the way my hands smell after a meal punctuated by citrus: I feel instantly awake, clean, refreshed. Mostly I eat it plain, peeled and pulled apart, segment by segment. But sometimes, when I’m in the mood to light candles, buy flowers and treat myself right, I’ll prepare myself a proper platter, presented with care and perhaps a few herbs.

This dish was inspired once again by Mark Bittman, who I am coming to like, more and more, despite the absence of a carrot cake recipe in his tome, “How to Cook EVERYTHING.” (I’m sorry Mark, but a carrot cake is definitely SOMETHING. Note to self: Never write a cookbook that sets such high expectations.)  He wrote about a citrus salad a few weeks ago in the Times, and I thought it was a nice idea: a good start to a lunch that might include some fine Greek yogurt drizzled with honey and cinnamon—which is often how I take my grapefruit, actually. It also makes a fine dessert, finished with a hunk of gingered dark chocolate. But then again, doesn’t everything end well with gingered dark chocolate?

On a recent Saturday afternoon after the farmer’s market, I decided to try my own rendition of Bittman’s sweet salad, putting to use some beautiful Texas-grown grapefruits and oranges. I had dill lying about and some walnuts and honey, so I candied the nuts and sprinkled some fine sprigs across the top of the sliced salad for garnish. A bit of green really adds to the look and the sweet, salty crunch of the walnuts is well worth the effort it takes to dress them up a little.

There is something to be said for eating with the eyes: other than the occasional grapefruit and avocado salad, I’ve rarely taken the time ‘present’ a grapefruit to myself, but oh did its careful slices look lovely when pricked with the tines of a silver fork. The little ritual made my Saturday afternoon something special: farm-to-table at its prettiest and most diginified. Get it while winter lasts…

Citrus Salad with Candied Walnuts and Dill

Serves 1

1 grapefruit
1 orange (try this with clementines, blood oranges or tangerines, also)
¼ c chopped walnuts (hazelnuts could be good…)
2 T honey, divided
2 T olive oil, divided
1 t white or red wine vinegar
½ tsp salt
dill for garnish (mint would work well also)

Prepare the dressing:

Mix honey and vinegar in a small bowl. Whisk in olive oil in a slow stream, until emulsified. Set aside.

Prepare the walnuts:

Place 1 T olive oil and 1 T honey in a sauté pan until hot.

Add walnuts and stir to coat.

Cook until brown, (this happens quickly) then remove from heat and set aside.

Prepare the salad:

Gently slice the rinds from the citrus fruits, and carefully slice into ¼” segments.

Arrange on a plate and drizzle with dressing.

Sprinkle with herbs and nuts and serve immediately.

I am usually pretty prepared for breakfast, but I don’t always have time to pre-think to the magnitude of old fashioned oats, reduced fruit or baked goods. This is where granola comes in—dutifully home-baked yet strong in its resistance to time.

In fact, it is precisely these qualities that make granola the perfect Mother’s Day present: it’s the homemade baked good that just keeps on giving—Christopher and I have had this batch for nearly two weeks, stored properly in a Ball jar. It’s just the kind of thing you want to leave on someone’s doorstep or send in a rustic package, tied with a bow.

This is precisely how I found this rendition of granola, which has quickly become a personal favorite. The girls at Sunday Suppers do a wonderful job of making everything look quaint enough to have come directly off the farm from Charlotte’s Web, while still being way more mod, urban and hip than I could ever claim to be. They tied their granola with twine, for example, and served it beside a row of mini-milk carafes.

Anyway, I often find myself wandering to Sunday Suppers when I’m looking for comfort. The pictures transport me to a lovely place, somewhere timeless and placeless: could be 1920, could be 2010. Could be New York; could be Paris. Either way, everything looks like some version of home I wish I’d had: which is why it’s so fitting that the last time I was looking for virtual nurture, I stumbled into granola, my go-to gift for the moms in my life.

Although I didn’t it follow it precisely, this recipe allowed me to produce the absolute most delicious granola I’ve ever made, or tasted as far as I can tell. The combination of honey and butter really sets it off: for some reason I’ve been accustomed to tossing my oats with oil. Never again. The flecks of oat, nut and fruit stay crisp and rich with this tactic, not at all lumpy or chunky, either. (Although this could be the result of my periodically lifting the Ball jar and shaking it over my shoulders, hoping I can coax the remaining bits of nut and fruit to the top…)

But really, every bite is good: rich, crisp, gently letting its sweet, rich flavors float around the bowl, adding something extra to my milk or yogurt. This is what I have to look forward to every day. And while the smell only graced the house for an evening, it comes back to me every time I unscrew that golden lid: it’s like getting out of bed and coming home—everything you could hope for in an early morning.

Golden Granola

Makes (at least) 8 servings

4 c old-fashioned rolled oats
½ c coarsely chopped walnuts
½ c coarsely chopped almonds
½ c coarsely chopped cashews
½ c shredded coconut
1 c dried fruit (cranberries are my favorite for this)
½ c sunflower seeds
¾ c local honey
1 c butter
1 tsp kosher salt

Preheat the oven to 320 degrees.

Place the butter and honey in a saucepan over low heat and stir until butter melts.

Put the oats, walnuts, almonds, cashews and sunflower seeds in a large bowl.

Coat with ½ of hot butter mixture and stir to combine.

Spread evenly over a non-stick mat or parchment-paper lined baking sheet.

Bake for 10 minutes, then remove from oven. Add remaining butter mixture then sprinkle salt over all.

Drizzle coconut flakes on top—these help to absorb any butter that is not being picked up by the oats. Stir again, if necessary.

Bake another 5 minutes then stir a final time, being sure that coconut and oats are evenly redistributed.

Add remaining fruit and nuts and bake an additional 5 minutes.

Cool then store in an airtight container.

I met the pair just before Christmas, when the weather was beginning to nip a bit. They came to Houston for an event that Recipe for Success was holding at a new restaurant called Canopy. The chef cooked recipes inspired by their book “In Late Winter We Ate Pears,” a chronicle of falling in love while following a hunger trail. I didn’t eat the food that night because I was helping to the event run smoothly, but I did sneak into the back, buy the cookbook, head home, and drink almost an entire bottle of wine while losing myself in a Mediterranean love affair.

I finished the book the next day and even managed to meet Caleb and Deidre for a drink at Anvil, a favorite bar that serves esoteric, antique cocktails, which—as it so happens—are one of Deidre’s specialties. The two-day whirlwind of book reading and author-meeting gave me a very clear sense of fate: Deidre and Caleb own one of the restaurants where Christopher and I flirted over pizza during weekends when we escaped the quiet Dartmouth campus and went to the (even quieter) town of Woodstock. Their restaurant, Osteria Pane e Salute is in the center of Woodstock—just a short walk from the church where we got married in October. Christopher and I spoke to Deidre about wine years ago while eating at the counter, though at the time I had no idea that cooking and growing food would become such serious habits of mine.

And then she reappeared, full of uncanny ties to my life. I first met she and Caleb amid sawdust and cherry pickers as restaurant workers tried desperately to get Canopy ready for the event that evening. Connections to food and gardening were unearthed, and I invited them to join me in the classroom that afternoon, where my co-teacher and I would be making pizza, pesto and tomato sauce with our students. After observing the garden and the classroom kitchen, Deidre spent some time deconstructing a recipe with a rather pouty 3rd grader while Caleb showed a group of 5th graders how to make the perfect dough: not too sticky, not too dry.

Later that night they disappeared into the bright lights of Canopy, while I snuck out through a dark back door after the last guests were seated. Don’t get me wrong: it exactly what I wanted to do. Somehow I knew that the book they’d written would make my own path clearer. I learned about their vineyard; their greenhouses; their own raised beds. I learned that they don’t grow certain things so that they can feature the produce of other local Vermont farmers. They keep Woodstock and its visitors warm and welcome year round—except when they head back to their own gastronomic homeland when winter becomes impossibly bleak.

There is a card on my desk that I bought for them at Christmastime that I keep meaning to send to commemorate our evening of retro drinks and everything that they have inspired me to remember. But I keep forgetting to send it. I’ve written more than one, in fact, since the Christmas card quickly became untimely. Instead of reaching out, I reach in: I’ve made almost a dozen recipes from their book and I dream of myself learning someday at their oven. I keep my fingers crossed that Christopher will go back to Dartmouth for business school, so that I can sneak away to Woodstock once again—going somewhere new and familiar all at the same time.

Which brings me back to tomato sauce. I always have a Ball jar full, waiting to be spread over all sorts of things in addition to pizza dough. I spoon it over baked yams, set it beside grilled fish or just dab some onto warm, buttered bread. Caleb and Deirdre have a wonderful recipe for wintertime pizza sauce, which I beef up with onions and serve as a full-blown tomato sauce perfect for pasta or as a thicker spread on pizza. It’s just right when you want something savory and “blessedly simple,” as Caleb describes. The sauce reminds me of the tastes of childhood, yet brings into relief all the delicious details of being an adult: the pleasure of watching garlic go gold; the glow of home-grown herbs on the countertop and the pride that comes from making something so good that people eat it straight from the jar, with a spoon.

Tomato Sauce

Inspired by “In Late Winter We Ate Pears”

1 15 oz can of crushed, concentrated plum tomatoes
3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 medium yellow onion, chopped
3 T tomato paste
1 T red wine vinegar
1 bunch fresh Oregano, chopped or 1 T dried
2 pinches crushed red pepper flakes
¼ c olive oil + 2 T
s & p to taste

In a medium sized sauce pan, sauté onion in 2 T olive oil until golden—about 6 minutes.

Add garlic and sauté until light brown—about 3 minutes.

Meanwhile, mix remaining ingredients together in a separate bowl.

When onion and garlic are ready, add tomato mixture and allow liquid to bubble.

Lower the heat and cook until sauce has reduced somewhat—or thin it out with 1 c water and use for pizza sauce.

But no matter how good the practice, it never hurts to finish with a cookie.

I was not a serious yogi until I discovered these. Imagine Popeye with a can of spinach: they don’t make my muscles bulge, per se, but they sure do get me fired up. The first yoga teacher who got me to develop a regular practice did so by placing a big wicker basket full of these squarely behind her at each class. During savasana I dreamed of myself, cross-legged and levitating, one cookie in each hand.

I will freely admit to my own distraction. Every time I went to Anne Novak’s class, I was utterly transfixed by the basket behind the table, which smelled simultaneously like Christmas kitchens, fancy chocolate shops and French bakeries. Whenever the final gong reverberation faded, I was up like a lissome prairie dog, scanning the room for competitors in my race to the batch. Even now, whenever I visit home and take one of Anne’s classes, I am the first yogi off the floor, rummaging through the offerings in search of the lumpiest, most laden cookie. I leave class sheepishly, my jacket stuffed. When I get home, I search for rogue crumbs in my pockets. Come to think of it, there may be some karmic repercussions for that kind of hoarding, but what can I say? Old habits die hard.

Now that I’m across the country from Ms. Novak, I have to keep my cookie jar full all by myself. But the process is so simple, and really worthwhile. There’s nothing like finishing a hard practice, wrung out and exhausted, anticipating some reward for my work. And they are really good to share—they last forever in the fridge and are appreciated by yogis and non-yogis alike. Moreover, they are almost saintly in their healthiness: loaded with dark chocolate, nuts, dried fruit, ground flaxseed, oats, coconut and honey, there’s nothing wrong with having one—or a few—each day. Plus, I can make them different every time, depending on my mood. They’re really just a more portable and glamorous version of granola.

BYO Yoga Cookies

1 cup whole wheat flour
3/4 cup local honey
2 cups of oats
1/2 cup of ground flaxseed
1 cup dried fruit (I like cranberries, cherries and prunes)
1 cup nuts (almonds and walnuts are great)
1/2 cup sunflower seeds
1 cup shredded coconut (optional)
1 cup dark chocolate (optional)
2 tsp each cinnamon and ground ginger
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
3/4 cup sunflower oil
1 cup (approximately) soymilk—you can also use regular milk, coconut milk or a beaten egg

__
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Mix dry ingredients.

Combine honey, oil and egg (if using).

Mix well.

If you did not use an egg, pour your milk into the batter and mix again to make batter firm and moist.

Chill batter for at least 10 minutes.

Using a tablespoon, form generous rounds on an oiled cookie sheet.

Bake 13-15 minutes.

*If you chose to add lots of extra ingredients, you may need to up your binding materials. Be sure to mix flour and milk together before introducing them to the preexisting dough.

Despite the potential that farmers’ markets and community gardens have for changing eating habits and consumer behavior, they need government support in order to succeed, especially in low-income communities and in neighborhoods where they have never existed. Unlike large-scale farms that receive massive government support, and whose output ends up dispersed through a vast web of products and national grocery stores, small-scale farmers sell their produce and livestock directly, without manufacturing, processing, or middle men–and largely without the help of Uncle Sam.

Growing crops to be sold directly does not offer much margin for error, in the form of bad weather or lack of attendance at the farm stand or farmers’ market. In order to encourage small farmers to keep growing, and to encourage community members to patronize them, local governments should support small-scale farmers through subsidies, easily obtainable grants and free training to use the equipment necessary to sell efficiently to the public–such as the EBT machines required to accept food stamps. Farmers’ markets should be clearly marked and advertised, and public transportation should be provided on days when the market takes place, so that everyone can have a fair shot of benefiting, both from the producer and the consumer side.

Unfortunately, small farmers do not receive the kind of aid their larger competitors often enjoy. In fact, rather than facilitating the growth and success of small farmers at farmers’ markets, state, local and large-scale government often impede their growth. The same goes for community gardens: a variety of bureaucratic forces are at work in many states, keeping communities from growing their own food, or from buying it from each other. Changing this could be a key element in changing the way American neighborhoods–especially inner city communities–perceive their food, with the overarching goal of improving America’s health.

While farmers’ markets across the United States are experiencing a renaissance, virtually all are the result of grassroots community support. This is appropriate, given their value in creating and representing community, but support from state and local offices could vastly improve their reach and efficiency. Take Houston, for example. It is not difficult for many of the city’s affluent shoppers to drive to a variety of farmers’ markets and pay the higher price for local foodstuffs. But for lower-income residents, shopping at the many weekday and weekend markets can be impossible: not only are the markets not advertised in these neighborhoods, but public transportation is spotty. Few people will walk or bike to markets when they have to return home with bagfuls of produce, eggs or cheese–especially not in 100 degree weather. Ultimately, these shoppers are often priced out anyway.

One of our local markets recently attempted to become more accommodating to poor consumers, but was denied a grant by the USDA. Sadly, this rejection will prevent that market–as well as the city’s other markets–from using food stamps. Why? Because the USDA mandates that people running farmers’ markets receive proper training in order to operate the expensive EBT machines. But people cannot afford either the machines, or the cost of the training, without a substantial grant. Now, all of the local farmers who sell to that market will continue to reach only the clientele that can afford to buy fresh produce at the cost and inconvenience it takes to buy locally.

Even worse, states often prevent their residents from selling produce they grow: community gardens are not to be used for commercial gain in many municipalities, and neighborhoods are often prevented from growing anything on vacant lots. This is enough to discourage anyone, but is particularly detrimental to individuals living in inner city communities who are more likely to have vacant lots in their neighborhoods and to want to make their growing efforts economically viable. Cities should make it possible for communities to grow their own food and sell it for profit. Not only does community gardening have the potential to make neighborhoods physically more healthful, more engaged, and more economically stable, they also turn abandoned, otherwise dangerous areas into beautiful, communal spaces.

In order to make farmers’ markets and community gardens a feasible economic option for all of the community’s residents, cities and states should help these projects receive the funding, attention and legal help necessary to move forward. Farmers’ markets should be advertised and clearly marked, with special attention placed on community centers, medical centers and in low-income neighborhoods. Cities should make transportation to these markets easy and efficient so that individuals who don’t live within walking distance are not alienated. This doesn’t require building a new subway system or implementing a different bus route: shuttle services could easily be provided within the hours of market operation, at relatively low cost.

Ultimately, such a system–if properly advertised–would pay for itself. As individuals pay local farmers, the regional economy will only be strengthened. Finally, state and local governments should ensure that the proper training is given to those who want to accept food stamps from their consumers–driving low-income shoppers away by not offering food aid would be detrimental not only to the physical health, but also to the social well-being of those communities. Everyone should be enfranchised and welcomed where fresh, healthy food is concerned.

Empowering communities to seek out healthy food and to participate in the communal act of growing or procuring such food is the bottom line where food issues (both financial and health related) are concerned. People building communities around sustainably grown, harvested and distributed food is an essential factor to changing the way America’s land and animals are treated. More importantly, making healthy, fresh food available to all groups of the population–not just the privileged few–will change the way American people are treated.

It started, as with all great holiday seasons, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Giving myself over to a solid month and a half of revelry was not even a question and I smiled from ear to ear at the sound of that first POP. This year, I drank my weight in champagne. I can’t seem to get enough of the stuff, a predilection that was born about a year ago, when boxes of congratulatory bottles started rolling our way. Worried that our house would be buried in booze before the wedding even arrived, Christopher and I began slugging back the bubbly, a drink I had formerly considered outré on any night other than December 31. Well 2009 really was a year of changes. And I rang it out just as I’d rung it in: with a very effervescent belly.

New Year’s Day ended on a high, if slightly indulgent note, punctuated by my ordering (with embarrassing gusto) “S’mortinis!” Let me just tell you, the S’mortini is a toxic way to end an evening—or start a year for that matter. Cream, chocolate liquour, vodka and a Godiva swizzle stick are topped with toasted marshmallows floating about… not exactly health—or dignity—in a glass.

Saturday marked my final indulgence: all-I-could-eat General Tso’s and dumplings finished off with dozens of chocolates, Dots and Tootsie Roll Pops that had been smashed out of a piñata. Our friend James, in town from New York, had a craving to visit his boyhood again and we obliged by hanging a rainbow donkey in the threshold. We stuffed it greatly with candy—some of which I pilfered through a hole in the Ass. After the ceremonial smashing, the floor was littered with candy wrappers, the confetti falling mostly at my feet.

Well, one massive, pickled belly-aching body later, there I was, standing at the grocery store on Sunday morning, deciding that all of those January health nuts have something right after all… at least for a month or so. So here I am, grinning in a whole new way, two day deep in soup. I’ve had at least 8 cups by now. The stuff is better than any swill I swallowed from November to January 5.

Believe it or not, I’ve already finished the batch. I made it just two days ago and have been the only one to touch the stuff, yet merely a single bowl remains. If my skin turns orange, I shall wear it proudly as an all-body badge of righteousness and good health.

Cleansing aside, this is a delicious soup: it is entirely vegetarian, but could easily be supplemented with some pork salt or Parmesan. It is a thick, sage-y brew, full of bright spots of tomato and smooth Cannelini beans. I had it for dinner last night with some salmon and wished I’d invited someone over to share in my merriment.

Butternut Squash and Sage Soup

Adapted from Gourmet

Serves 6

1 large butternut squash, cut into ½” cubes
1 clove of garlic, minced
1-2 T sage, chopped (or to taste)
1 medium onion, diced
1 15 oz can of Cannellini beans
1 small can of whole tomatoes, chopped
1 Qt vegetable (or chicken) broth
2 T olive oil
S & P
Toasted pumpkin seeds (for garnish)
Parmesan (for garnish)

Heat olive oil in a large, heavy bottomed soup pot.

Add onion and cook over medium until translucent, about 10 to 15 minutes.

Add garlic and cook until slightly brown, about 4 minutes.

Deglaze pot with tomato juice from can then add squash, sage, tomatoes and broth.

Bring soup to a boil then turn down heat and simmer for thirty minutes or until squash is soft and broth has reduced somewhat.

To thicken soup, smash cubes of squash against the sides of the pot.

At this point soup can be refrigerated for up to 3 days. Reheat soup and add beans about 15 minutes before serving.

Garnish with sage and, toasted pumpkin seeds or Parmesan.

Resolutions are easy to make and even easier to abandon. Righteousness gives way to guilt as my commitments fall by the wayside: disappointment clouds every February and leads me to reject my resolutions entirely in favor of a better year eleven months hence. It’s a vicious cycle indeed. This year I’ve made a list for myself with options both small and substantial. (Some, marked (*) are even more challenging.) Since it’s always easier to make sacrifices for those we love, I figured I would point all of my goodness towards Mother Earth. Join me–try one or all of these options, with the knowledge that every effort will make a difference. But be warned: this isn’t your typical ‘change your light bulbs’ list. Some of these altercations may seem truly esoteric, but I promise, they’re worthwhile. Consider it a resolution writ large, with lots of wiggle room. Pick one or several. Either way, you won’t disappoint yourself.

1. Be lazy. Do less. Learn to revel in nothingness. Watch the clouds. Loaf a bit. Take a long stroll with no goals in mind. See how content you can be without producing or consuming anything.

2. If you’re a man, pee outside. Make sure nobody’s looking.

3. Use less toilet paper–careful folding is not that hard and needn’t be messy. Make sure every paper product you use comes from recycled material.

4. Don’t flush your pills–your hormone treatments, antidepressants, downers, uppers, erection-makers, etc. will end up in the public drinking water. Be a good citizen and hope others do the same.

5. Stop buying products with chemicals: opt for organic cleaners, soaps, lotions, etc. Nobody wants to drink Nair runoff, either.

6. Pick up an outdoor sport that doesn’t require driving to and fro.

7. This winter, go cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing.

8. This summer, go bird watching.

9. Toss dryer lint outdoors–birds will use it for nesting.

10. Cut out the joy rides: don’t drive if you have no destination.

11. Collect vintage clothes.

12. Collect antiques.

13. Take your favorite people (young ones especially) to visit a farm.

14. Teach a kid to cook something simple and seasonal.

15. Learn a seasonal dish from somebody whose cooking you admire.

16. Become a regular at farmers’ markets: aim to get so close to your local growers that they ask where you’ve been if you miss a week. * Start a co-op with friends and neighbors.

17. Buy bulk and fill reusable containers. Ball jars are charming–have your grocery store weigh yours beforehand so you don’t pay for its heft.

18. Stop buying food that comes in little packages: for example, opt for larger containers of yogurt instead of multiple tiny cups.

19. Aim to make at least 50% of your diet local and seasonal. *Try the 100 mile diet.

20. This winter, grow your own herbs, starting with everyday ingredients like parsley, basil, rosemary, oregano and mint. A few terracotta pots sprouting green will really spiff up your kitchen.

21. This spring, plant a front yard garden. You will enjoy showing off to your neighbors come July, and you’ll probably want some takers for all of the tomatoes and zucchini you’ll have on hand.

22. This winter, bundle up and turn down the heat. *Use a wood-burning fire only.

23. This summer, strip down and turn down the AC. *Use fans only.

24. Wash colors separately in cold water, but dry them all at once. If you have to dry two loads, do them one after the other to make use of residual heat. *Recycle your drier and string a clothesline. While you’re at it, give away both appliances in favor of a washboard and wooden tub. (FYI: I will be keeping my washer dryer through 2010.)

25. BYO lunch, silverware, coffee mugs and water bottles. If you forgot your Thermos at home, forgo the Starbucks. Or stay put and drink from one of their glass mugs.

26. Invest in a good water filter and bring water wherever you go.

27. Don’t order takeout. Either dine-in or cook for yourself.

28. Cook more, especially on your stove top or grill. Don’t be afraid to cook small items in a toaster oven.

29. Recycle old batteries. If you do nothing else, please do this.

30. Turn off your TV. *Recycle your TV.

31. Downsize your car. * Give up your car.

32. Downsize yourself.

33. Kill your electronic Vampires. Turn off your cell at night and unplug electronics from the wall when not in use–they suck power even when they’re off.

34. Keep your car tuned and tires filled.

35. Buy a bicycle with a basket and use it for local errands or trips.

36. Shower with your special someone. Or at the very least, get out of the shower, fast: a conventional shower head uses up to 10 gallons a minute. *Pee in the shower–but only if you’re alone.

37. Turn the faucet off when you shave or brush your teeth. (Women: this is a good time to do your leave-in conditioning…)

38. Buy better: research all of the companies you support. There are lots of ways to do it, including through the Carbon Disclosure Project.

39. Buy less of everything.

40. Get creative with gift-wrapping, card-writing and letterhead.

41. Stop smoking.

42. Plant a tree and sew some native wildflowers.

43. Go camping…close to home.

44. Cut back on trips that require flying, and offset your trip when possible.

45. Put a stop to junk mail and solicitations.

46. Share magazine subscriptions *Cancel them and catch up at the library.

47. Get inspired to spend time outside: read Mary Oliver, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost.

48. Picnic at a local park and leave it cleaner than you found it.

49. Volunteer at your local community garden, arboretum or park. You know you want to call yourself a trailblazer.

50. Move out of the suburbs. Live in an apartment building or on a farm.

But, they persisted in my house, a Christmas tradition handed down by my Polish Great Grandmother. When I was a kid I imagined that Russian Tea Cakes were the only cookies in Eastern Europe. It seemed fitting: they’re not too decadent, don’t require too many ingredients and seem like little snowballs that could be drifting around the other side of the Iron curtain. Even though I didn’t like them much, I used to brag about these little tea-cakes, proud was I of their ancestral history. As a kid, I described to friends and classmates that we still had my Great Grandmother’s recipe, well worn and sugar-coated on an aging index card.

Then I found out that they’re also called Mexican Wedding Cakes. They are, as it turns out, a rather ubiquitous cookie—not at all unique to Poland. This discovery was made a few years ago and only strengthened my disinterest. Now they had absolutely nothing to offer—except coveted space in my stomach where another cookie might fit instead.

Well time does a funny thing to taste buds. In a scant few years I’ve come to love these little morsels as much as any, comforted by the fact that multiple culture have laid claim just as I have. And although I’ve never had these at a wedding, they really do go great with tea, which is exactly how I’m enjoying them now.

Russian Tea Cakes AKA Mexican Wedding Cakes
Makes about 4 dozen

Preheat oven to 400.

Mix thoroughly together (a Kitchen Aid really helps)

1 c soft butter
½ c sifted confectioner’s sugar
1 t vanilla

Sift together and stir in

2 ¼ c sifted flour
¼ t salt
¾ c finely chopped walnuts (though pecans would do)

Have ready

1 ½ c sifted confectioners’ sugar

Chill dough. Don’t worry: it will look crumbly, but will form smooth balls when pressed between warm palms.

Roll dough into 1” balls. Place 2 ½ inches apart on an un-greased cookie sheet.

Bake approximately 10 minutes, or until just slightly brown.

Remove from heat and let sit just a few minutes—roll in sugar while still warm but not piping hot.

Roll once more in sugar after cookies have cooled completely.

Store in a sealed container for up to 5 days.