Cheese and Choux

Finally, finally, finally: today feels like spring.  The concrete-style blocks of ice have since melted.  I've awakened to birds chirping.  The farmers' markets, all over town, have begun to dust themselves off.  And even though it's still too cold for the lightweight, bright colors that I want to wear, it's Easter this weekend.  Came a little early this year, though, didn't it?

Anyway, this won't be a long blog today, because - no offense to you and yours - I'd rather be outside.  I have a slight problem with pushing the season.  I become uber-excited at the beginning of the season (any season), and thereupon busy myself with anything that I can do to celebrate its coming.  On Monday of this week, the first Monday in a long stream of Mondays to offer a cloudless sky and pulsating sun, I pushed the season.  I pushed it so hard that I nearly cracked it.  Even though I haven't gone running in some time (due to my general distaste for breathing cold air in the lungs, not a certain exam), I eagerly decided to begin again.  And, as with the beginning of every season, I forgot to pace myself.  I ran too far and too fast.  I ran merrily and contentedly, until I was sufficiently winded.  When I returned home, I was in such a place of unmatched HAPPY that I even forgot to stretch.  Karma then bit me.  Hard.

I did something terrible to my right foot.  My husband, who popped ligaments and headed to the ER an ironic two days before the bar exam, and I have hobbled together in tandem.  He hurt his right ankle too, so our injuries make for a nice symmetry.  Because I was house-bound, I didn't even mind a three-day onslaught of downpours.  I drank chamomile tea and ate soup.  I finally (hopefully) accepted that I must ebb and flow with what the season brings.  This means no flip-flops for a little while.  This means that I have to wear a coat, even when a bright sun and brighter grass would urge otherwise.  This means a steady pace, and a marathon-like approach to enjoying the season.

Even so, this doesn't mean that I can't nudge the season along a bit.  And what could be more symbolic of spring than morels and asparagus?  Aside from that Big Fluffy Bunny that hops around with the dyed eggs, not much.  I found a recipe from the New York Times (an oft-neglected recipe hot spot) that incorporates dried morels into risotto.  (*Dried mushrooms, more than their soft counterparts, can withstand lengthy stirring).  I do realize that I recently made a risotto, but the stirring gets me every time.  On a rainy Wednesday at dusk, stirring my risotto helped me vet out all of the excess noise.  I didn't even play music this time.  It was just me stirring and the rain bleating up against the window.  All quiet.  No matter that I had to stir the thing flamingo-style, with my right foot airborne in a constant, loose arabesque.  On this Friday, with my angry foot having heeled somewhat and the sun having begun to peek through the clouds again, I'm ready to celebrate the season at a more forgiving pace.  No more running for me for at least a week.  It's time to stroll. 

Risotto with Morels, Capicola, and Parmesan, adapted from the NY Times, May 1996

Ingredients

1 1/2 cups Arborio rice, or other short-grain rice

3 1/2 to 4 cups chicken or vegetable stock

1 cup chopped onion

1/3 cup dry white wine

2 tablespoons unsalted butter

1/4 cup capicola

1/2 cup grated parmesan cheese

4-5 oz. dried morels

Instructions

Put morels in a small bowl; add water and set aside for 30 minutes.  Drain the morels, reserving the liquid.  Mix the liquid with the stock and place in saucepan.  Keep at a low simmer.

Heat butter in heavy saucepan, add onion and garlic and sauté for about 10 minutes.  Stir in rice and cook for a few minutes.  Add wine and morels.  Stir.

Gradually, add the simmering stock - about 1/2 cup each time, stirring constantly.  Add additional stock as each ladleful becomes absorbed into the arice.  Continue to cook for another minute or so.  Add the parmesan cheese and capicola, and let stand for a few minutes.