My relationship with food lately has been rocky, at best.  I dealt with a surprising bout of illness this spring; I naturally followed this with a handful of weeks of tentative eating.  Just as I thought I had reached my personal zenith of health again (note that mine differs immensely from, say, Lance Armstrong's), I went to the aquarium. 

It was a good idea, as many terrible ideas are, in theory.  You know, hammerhead sharks.  Glow-in-the-dark fish.  Ancient-looking turtles.  A dolphin show.  Yet somewhere in the midst of the unending masses of munchkins and one questionably stale grilled cheese sandwich, I managed to acquire food poisoning.  The timing was the worst it could have been, as it occurred the evening before a dear friend's wedding.  (Another friend later mentioned that mine was the ONLY unused placard, so the groom was concerned.  How do these things happen?)  As my stomach convulsed on one long highway with an appalling lack of rest stops, I vowed never to eat again.  Apparently, I get fairly melodramatic with food poisoning.

After another week of merry-go-round-style nausea, I managed to default back to two weeks of tentative eating.  Soup.  Bread.  Juice.  Wash and repeat.  In the process, I reached a whole new level of closeness with my husband.  All of that newlywed vanity and courtship trying-to-be-pretty stuff is a thing of the past.  He has now seen me in throes of ugly unlike anything since the bar exam, and he still loves me.  I'm astounded and grateful and beginning to believe him now when he says he'll love me always.  That's what these hardships are, I suppose: tiny affirmations of his commitment to always stay.  As the greenery all around blossoms fully and winter is all too easily forgotten, it would seem that my own marriage fits nicely into summer's easy metaphor.

But not so fast.  I'm not a sarcastic, skeptical, left-leaning blogger for nothing.  I'm still annoyed for the wicked trick that's been played on me in these early summer days.  While I've dutifully read all of your blogs (and you've been eating marvelously, I might add), I've been steaming away with envy.  It feels like a cruel joke to be forced into sacrifice, into tasteless crackers and broth, just as the earth itself offers such a bounty.  It feels like the very definition of irony.  And if I hadn't had such time - what with my stomach rumbling precariously and our most not-funny friends tossing around words like "pregnancy" - I would be incredibly peeved at having missed summer.  Fortunately for me, I'm not pregnant and my stomach has calmed to still water.  Moreover, I sometimes keep a blog where I think about these things.  And right now, all I really feel is grateful.

Having been relegated to the house on dozens of sunny days, I have fervently enjoyed my lazy strolls through the farmer's market.  The strawberries, all dirty and plump, taste like heaven.  Slicing them, and licking the juices that trickle down clumsy fingers, is the ultimate sensory experience.  Fresh-grown basil smells like it's finally come into its own.  Like it's finally ready to really shine.  The cheesemonger is there, too, as he offers tantalizing shards of things that I can't quite pronounce.  I purchase cannolis from a local baker, and lettuce from a kid who looks like he wants to get out of the heat. 

Yet, even with all the bounty at stake, summer really isn't the best time for a foodie blog.  Because people like me, people who like to eat things best when they're in season, don't want to take the time to cook their wares.  We're a little impatient, particularly those of us in the mid-atlantic, because we've been waiting some time for food to taste of summer.  In truth, all of the fresh fruit and vegetables truly could (and maybe should) be left alone.

But there are reasons to find our way back into the kitchen.  There will be rainy days and bellies that gurgle (hopefully, not mine) for something warm.  With that, I'll offer up my own recipe for ratatouille.  My mother made it when we were young, as it was one of the easiest ways to urge us to "eat our colors."  I've spiced it up with some white wine and roasted peppers.  I've tailored it to suit my grown-up tastes.  Yet, I like this dish because those infantile parts of me, those parts that don't care for summer squash and zucchini unless they're cooked, warm to the idea of a meal that will soak up any vegetable that my refrigerator can regurgitate.

And with that last, impeccably wrong (under the circumstances) choice of verb, I'll leave you to your summer.

Lizzie's Ratatouille

Ingredients

Olive oil

1/2 an onion, coarsely chopped

3 gloves of garlic, chopped

2 orange bell peppers, sliced in half (remove seeds)

2 red bell peppers, sliced in half (remove seeds)

1 medium-sized eggplant, sliced

4 Roma tomatoes, chopped

1 zucchini, sliced

1 yellow squash, sliced

Fresh basil

Fresh thyme

Dried oregano

Dried parsely

1/2 cup of dry white wine

Instructions

Heat the oven to 400 degrees.  Place pepper halves on foil with the skin facing upwards.  Roast for 20 minutes.  When the pepper halves have cooled, chop them coarsely.

In a Dutch oven, heat olive oil, garlic, and onion on medium heat for approximately 6 minutes or until softened.  Add the eggplant until coated with oil.  Add the peppers.  Cover and cook for 10 minutes.

Add the sliced tomatoes, zucchini, and herbs.  Add the white wine.  Cover and cook for 15 minutes on medium-low heat.

I am a generally healthy person who sometimes daydreams about being sick. 

It's one of those things that I don't normally share, but this is what blogs do, right?  They lull you into a false sense of security until the ever-elusive over-share finally asserts itself.  So there you go.  Sometimes, even on the sunniest and most dappled days, I'd rather be in bed.  As a disclaimer, this feeling is usually dredged up when I've signed on for too much.  Over booked weekends.  Too much work.  Lack of lazy contact with good friends.  Lack of time with my characteristically un-lazy husband.  As someone who has never been one to nap (or at least, never figured out how to do it well), this is right about the time that I'm ready to sign out.  Curl up.  Assume the fetal position.  Shut the blinds, and shut out the world.  Retreat.  But then, what's that old adage?  Ah yes, that's it.

Be careful what you wish for.

Indeed, be careful what you wish for, because sometimes wishes pounce with snarled teeth.  And suddenly, it's the middle of picture-poignant May and I'm sick.  See, most of what I really wanted in those daydreams revolved around a decent break and a soft pillow.  I often forget that being sick, being the sick that involves doctors and antibiotics, is just plain rotten.  It's right up there with mud puddles and the stench of dirty diapers.  It has little to no redeeming qualities, and retains the sobering quality of rendering its victim both unproductive and slug-like.  (I do know that I could write sluggish here, but really, it's too pretty a word).

So, as you might have guessed from the rambling diatribe, I was out for the count for a little over a week.  In the week following my bout with bronchitis, I loped around our home with little energy.  And if my eyes ever glowed, it was only because my fever had come back unannounced.  It occurred to me - when I was too tired to read the stack of magazines positioned neatly by my pillow - that I often wish for breaks, because I don't often take them.  And I don't often take them, because I'm not good at being so still.  I know what you're thinking: startling, Sherlock, just startling.  Even so, it's been a real lesson for me as I ease my way back into my previous pace.  It's been my own cautionary tale.  I have to go easier on myself.  At the very least, I can't give the universe an excuse to knock me out again.

That being said, I found my own ways to be one badass invalid.  I ate Popsicles with no thought to portion control.  When I tired of Vogue, I lingered over Simone de Beauvoir's slightly depressive She Came To Stay with its group of morose characters; I had to embrace my people.  And when I really wanted to throw caution to the wind, I limped outside to sit on the porch for 10 minutes.  Without sunglasses.  The splintering headache the followed only served to augment my very satisfied feeling of rebellion.  But my greatest coup d'etat came from the mother of all counter-culture leaders: Oprah.  I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking that Oprah's pretty tame, but you weren't there for one Monday's sandwich spectacular.  Oprah sent her best friend, Gayle (don't pretend you don't know her name), on some kind of cross-country tasting mission to find the best sandwiches in America.  Instantly, I was salivating - and this from someone who had lost all ability to taste!  A number of sandwiches had me sitting on my elbows amidst my pyramid of pillows.  But there was one sandwich that, according to Gayle at least (whom I now really want to be friends with too), left the others in its dust.  Or crumbs, as the case may be.

This sandwich was a grilled cheese constructed by the Cafe Muse out of Michigan.  Now, I love a rockin' sandwich, particularly when it's coupled with soup.  Still, I hadn't thought to do anything with grilled cheese.  I'm not sure why the thought had never crossed my mind, because grilled cheese has all the elements to satisfy: undeniable nostalgia, simplicity, gooey constructs, bread.  What's not to love?  But THIS grilled cheese mixed in different types of cheeses and honey.  In the words of Renee Zellweger (who will never cease to be the chick from Empire Records for me), it had me at hello. 

On Monday night, and then AGAIN on Tuesday night, I ate the very worst kind of food for a sick person.  I succumbed to temptation and had my grilled cheese.  It involved heirloom tomatoes and toasted bread.  It was the most gooey its ever been.  Jordan and I couldn't even talk, because our mouths acted as vessels to catch fallen cheese.  (Now, I had lost my voice by this point, but that's really besides the point).  While I dutifully ate sick person food for the rest of the week, namely broth and more broth, I treasured my act of rebellion.  And in throes of a cloudy illness that resembled nothing like the stuff of my daydreams, I even believe that I could taste it.

I don't need to post this recipe.  I'll just send you to it by way of O herself. 

The first time that I ever tasted white asparagus was in an impossibly trendy restaurant in Baltimore, the city of my birth - a place that I never, in a million years, would depict as trendy.  The restaurant was called Corks.  We ate there initially because my aunt is something of oenophile.  We had excellent wine, however, because of her knack for convincing balding sommeliers to share some secrets.  As we all do with the best meals, I remember snapshots.  I remember mango chutney over grilled chicken.  I remember some fluffy mesclun mixture with a sweet vinaigrette.  I remember my aunt's, who also incidentally happens to be Francophile, cheese plate.  Even better, I remember pilfering some of its best offerings when she turned her head; she had, fortunately for me, begun speaking professionally (maybe flirting a little) with the balding sommelier.  Most of all, I remember the moment that my white asparagus arrived, laced with a prudently delicate sauce.  I had titled my head to the side, raised my eyebrows, and wondered what in the kitchen had gone horribly wrong.  My aunt must have noticed my decided lack of poker-face, clearly painted with confusion.  That's white asparagus, she said, it grows underground.  She said it like she had explained everything.

I've always had a thing for green asparagus, because it denotes spring and cooks up so pretty on the plainest of plates.  Green asparagus requires nothing more than sea salt, olive oil, and seasonality.  Et voila, it's the most lanky and elegant of all of the vegetables.  However, at least in the U.S., white asparagus often gets the cold shoulder.  Throughout Europe, I see its ivory visage more frequently on my dinner plate.  Those Europeans use white asparagus like it's any other vegetable, like it's something approaching common.   While, admittedly, white asparagus is native to Europe, you would think that its mild flavor would convert any green asparagus-adherents.  Still, I seem to be in the minority.

I love cooking with white asparagus, because it enters a meal with little fanfare.  Whereas green asparagus can easily dominate a meal, white asparagus instead harmonizes with all of its elements.  Flavors merge, colors blur, and any lingering bitterness subsides.  In fact, I think that Jordan was initially turned off by the white asparagus.  It's no matter, though.  White asparagus, with its gentle taste and familiar texture, wins them over every time.

Remember when Thumbelina left her underground home with the mole to rejoin the world of sun and flowers and fairy princes?  In my mind, had she been treated underground to white asparagus in a delicate sauce, she might have reconsidered. 

White Asparagus and Wild Brown Rice Casserole

*Note that while the casserole is okay, it's still best with olive oil and sea salt

Ingredients

1 pound white asparagus, with lowest part of the stalk broken off, and cut into pieces

1 can Cannellini beans

3 cloves of finely chopped garlic

4 servings of cooked brown wild rice, according to your own instructions

1/3 cup Parmesan cheese

Hunks of fresh basil, ripped to shreds

Dried oregano

Dried parsley

Olive oil

Instructions

First, heat the brown rice according to your own instructions.

Cook the asparagus in olive oil with the garlic for 10 minutes or so over medium heat, until it becomes more translucent.  Cook the beans with olive oil for five minutes.  Mix the remaining ingredients together, according to your own discretion.  Mix with the rice.

So, I do recognize that I've been a fairly tardy blogger.  However, I can point to a litany of excellent excuses. 

The sun has been shining for nearly two weeks straight.  The park where I run has been beckoning, and the foot (mine, not my husband's) that has kept me from doing so has begun to heal.  The year, for me, is at its most exquisite.  It's the narrow sliver, the slice of perfect, that acted as a reward in the biting cold of winter.  I had forgotten the simplest, most lovely touchstones of spring - the falling to sleep with the windows open and the rising with the birds as they chirp.  I appreciate it even more this year, I think, because of the heady quality to my autumn and winter.  Autumn was all joyous weddings (ours and others), but tempered by the massive amount of change.  I thought I was okay with transition, but it turns out that I have my limits.  Winter was bleak.  The test and the snow and the locomotive-like wind nearly knocked me out.  So this spring, this transient moment where trees bloom as flowers do, feels like peace.  At the very least, I've been counting my blessings.  Yet, I do recognize that I haven't done much blogging.  We're in luck however.  With a thunderstorm roaring outside (and the resulting promise that April flowers actually DO often bring May flowers), here we go.

Though it's probably obvious right now, I would often rather be outside.  I would rather be outside than, oh, just about anything.  As a result, I haven't done massive amounts of cooking.  I've cooked, of course.  All of my meals been a bit meh, though.  It isn't so much that I don't care, because hopefully you know by now that I relish deceiving Jordan with as many vegetables as possible.  It's just that cooking often requires planning.  It requires basic things, like a grocery list.  Like thought.  Instead, I've been logging hours walking and running in the park where I try my very best to clear my head.  And not to think.  In short, I've been seeking out some inspiration again.

Often, when I want to be inspired, I turn to a number of famous chefs and their pretty cookbooks.  Grocery store web sites are great, too.  On the slowest, most uninspired of days, there is always Google.  I'm not sure what's been the matter with me, all of this time, thinking that I arrogantly know what's best for me.  I'm not sure, not sure at all, why I hadn't turned to my mother.

I should start by saying that I grew up in a meat and potatoes family.  In the lean years when I (the first baby) was little, I can remember nights where my mother was still working crazy shifts.  My dad would be a bit harried, trying to feed us three, and Chef Boyardee was often involved.  It was the eighties, and I think that the notion of food as a name-brand thing was almost fashionable.  Anyway, the point is that I recall with great nostalgia both my mother's secret recipe for chicken salad and Kraft macaroni & cheese.  Homemade food had its constraints, and they did the very best that they could.  And in the string of meals every night at 6 pm, my mom would sometimes offer up some real gems.  One of my favorite meals, with its glistening emerald coating and charged red sauce, was Stuffed Peppers.  They were the best.  Even now, even grown up, they're still the very best.  Until recently however, I completely forgot about them.

I should say that - you know this by now - I'm stubborn.  I like to think that I'm independent.  I don't particularly care for asking for advice.  In fact, I'm often that really aggravating person who refuses to ask for directions.  I don't care if I'm spinning in circles, I won't allow myself to be led.  Still, sometimes the guidance of another can loosen up our burdens.  Spinning in circles exhausts a tremendous amount of energy.  Sometimes, life is just best easy.  In that spirit, I finally called my mom to ask for her recipe. 

Like any dish that's been loved to the point that it's become reflexive however, my mom didn't remember the nuts and bolts of the recipe.  She etched out its bones for me, though.  And like any stubborn daughter in her mid-twenties, I've messed with it a little.  For instance, I needed a side dish, not the main meal.  (You know me and my endless quest for side dishes).  In any case, I dispensed with the traditional ground chuck.  Also, instead of marinara sauce, I used salsa.

I have to digress for a minute to wax poetic about cilantro.  This is an herb that I detested in my teens - I always felt that too much of it had the interesting aftershock of clearing out my sinuses.  It wasn't what I wanted in salad.  Lately though, I've come to yearn for this unique jolt to the system.  Lately, I've been eating way too much Mexican and Latin-inspired food as a result.  My Stuffed Peppers were chock full of cilantro.  And while quinoa might have been an interesting choice of "stuffing," this grain has become nearly trendy (read: cheap) recently.  It's very accessible.  How something as ancient as Babylon becomes trendy is beyond me.  Nonetheless, I like quinoa best because - though it's fairly tasty stuff - it has a Goldilocks-aesthetic that makes me smile. 

So, they aren't my mother's stuffed peppers.  I made them for a mid-week meal, just as she would have done once.  I made them because I wasn't exactly in the mood to be cooking (after running blithely through the park), just as she would have done once (after a tireless night-shift at the hospital).  And, of course, my Stuffed Peppers were a pale imitation of my mother's dish.  I should have called her a long time ago.

Mexican Stuffed Peppers  (*Will annoy mother for her recipe eventually)

Ingredients

4 stuffed bell peppers (either green or red)

Salsa, 1 regular-sized jar or homemade

1 can black beans, or dry black beans that have been soaked over night in water  (*Note that I do realize that I used kidney beans, instead.  But, as with coffee, I always prefer black).

1 cup quinoa, cooked according to your instructions

1 cup of cooked corn, cooked according to your instructions

1 medium-sized onions, chopped

3/4 cup of any grated Latin cheese

Grated parmesan

Cilantro (!!!)

Instructions

First, cook the quinoa and black beans according to instructions.  Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Chop off the top and carve out the middle pulp of the peppers, leaving their shell behind.  Drop stuffed peppers into a saucepan of boiling water.  Let them sit for fifteen minutes, or until they've grown soft.

Meanwhile, mix the quinoa, black beans, Latin cheese, cilantro, onion, corn, and a bit of salsa.  After having allowed the peppers to cool, stuff them with the stuffing and place in a baking dish.  Pour the remaining salsa over the peppers and into the baking dish.  Top with parmesan cheese.  Bake for approximately 30 minutes.

Ha, totally kidding.  I've always wanted to say that.  Sadly however, I've never dated the Sid Vicious God-Save-The-Queen types.  Not me, no.  I've always gravitated towards the fine wine, carefully puckered tie, newspaper under the arm on Sunday mornings types.  They've been well-read; they've had a good sense of humor; they've never done any real time in prison.  Still, there has to be some merit to the bad boy that I've been missing.  If not, I certainly have a bone to pick with a number of girlfriends who kept me up weeping and waiting by the phone in college.  I'm not sure what the merit is, and this is probably why I married the very best of "my type."  Nonetheless, there's a certain dangerous something to wiggling your eyebrows, casually leaning in to offer a secret, and chucking about a lightening-bolt word.  Like rehab.

Unfortunately, I've just never been that interesting.  My fine wine husband isn't in rehab for anything that requires a twelve-step program, but rather to fix the foot that he royally screwed up playing basketball.  The plebians call his rehab "physical therapy," but honestly, what's the fun in that?  So my husband not only popped a handful of ligaments (two days before the bar exam, I might add), but he went above and beyond your ordinary sprain.  He did such a number on that foot that his therapist has proclaimed the look of it (tiger stripe purple bruises on all sides) and the feel of it (disturbingly wobbly) unprecedented.  For a good month, I just winced when I looked at that foot.  Unprecedented or not, I just felt helpless.  Watching him.  Not being able to do anything. 

This is kind of love that never gets shown of TV.  They always give you these oddly oiled bodies straddling each other in great abandon.  Nearly every woman (don't me started) has implants that actually look implanted.  Everything's all hot and bothered.  But very recently, I've decided that the best kind of love is the kind that mops your head during a fever.  That chills with you during a chick flick (however grudgingly).  That doesn't make fun of you (too much) when you spill wine at a work function.  I suppose I have to resign myself to the inarguable fact that I actually love somebody more than myself.  And I've decided that it's the most frustrating freakin' thing in the world.

Because I can't actually do anything to make my gimpy mate better.  Recently, I've exhausted energy elsewhere.  I've cleaned bathrooms.  I've helped him carry heavy stuff upstairs.  You know, we do what we can.  Many people would probably advise me to mellow out, as there's nothing (really) that I can do to help.  To these pessimists, I have only one word: muffins.

That's right, I made him muffins.  I made muffins, because his physical therapy required him up at the crack of dawn.  I made muffins, because he gets tunnel vision sometimes, and I knew he would miss breakfast.  And, of course, I did it because it was the only thing that I could do.  And, if a girl's gotta be helpless, she can at least be helpless with sparkling bathrooms and a yummy smelling kitchen.  Besides, I'm no martyr here; I definitely pilfered some for myself.  I should note that the recipe calls for blueberries, which always seems a bit weak to me.  How many blueberry muffins have you eaten in your life?  There you go, I rest my case.  I should also note that this recipe is super healthy, and in that sense, a little bland.  However, because it's so healthy, the fiber should prove filling enough for a meal substitute.  I should also note that all of my pictures are of the strawberries, because they're just so sublimely pretty this spring.  Forget the look of the muffins.  Just eat them.

And I should also say that, in the end, I ate more muffins than him.  But that's okay, because I made them all for him.  And that - for me - is unprecedented.

Oat Whole Wheat Strawberry and Banana Muffins, pilfered from Bea Ojankangas "Light Muffins . . . "

Instructions

1 1/2 cups uncooked old-fashioned rolled oats

1/2 cup whole wheat flour

1/3 cup packed brown sugar

3 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ginger

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup fresh or dried blueberries

1 cup skim milk

1/2 cup (1 medium) mashed ripe banana

2 tablespoons Walnut oil

1 large egg, beaten

Instructions

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.  Spray a 12 cup muffin tin with olive oil based cooking spray.  In a large bowl, thoroughly mix the rolled oats with the wheat flour, brown sugar, baking powder, ginger, cinnamon, and salt.  Add the strawberries, and stir gently until they are evenly distributed.  In a small bowl, stir together the milk, banana, oil, and egg until blended.  Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients and stir until just moistened, about 20 strokes.  Spoon batter into the muffin cups, dividing evenly.  Bake for 15-20 minutes, or until wooden toothpick comes out clean.

I've always been clumsy with lunch.  We're talking tripping up the stairs/stumbling on the pavement/scabbed-over knees clumsy.  In those bleak hours from 11 to 1 pm each day - which, by the way, always arrive too suddenly - you can find me scratching my head.  I hardly ever know what to make.  The meal has always been less artistry, than a desperate groping for sustenance.  It's always just been about fuel.

For me, lunch is the only meal that offers this unique problem.  Breakfast is piping hot stability.  Every morning, those deepest, infantile nether regions of myself that cling to routine and predictability, follow the same practiced dance.  I stumble into the kitchen with my hair tousled into its oh-so attractive fro.  While Jordan gravitates towards the coffee maker that I still don't understand, I grab a well-worn saucepan.  (One of the best things for me about being married has been not having to be the one who makes the coffee).  With the sky still dark and the kitchen achingly quiet, we twiddle around each other like bees puttering away in their hive.  We know our tasks; we perform them with nothing less than ritual.  The end-result is always the same and always tastes better than the day before: old-fashioned, grainy oatmeal; sliced fruit; coffee. 

If breakfast revolves around stability, dinner serves to illustrate the polarity in our day.  Dinner is all hats thrown to the wind/taking the neglected route to work/blind dates/a new stamp in the passport/wrapping your tongue around a new language.  Dinner is adventurous and spirited.  We're excited to see each other (hopefully not simply a newlywed thing) after hours apart.  The conversation proves electric, crackling as it darts through the room.  Dinner is curry one night and penne the next.  It's a blend of spices that saturate the place with a coating, as thick and pungent as fresh paint.  If breakfast is a waltz, dinner is Bob Fosse on Broadway.  The sky is dark once again, and the lights have never burned so bright.

Now, inevitably, I return to the notion of lunch.  As a kid, I ate the same lunch as most of my fellow tween suburbanites: two pieces of bread with meat and cheese slapped between; a piece of fruit; some sort of juice box/milk beverage; maybe a cookie.  As an adult, I yearn for something less heavy and infinitely more satisfying.  My lunch, however haphazardly put together, often trails the season most of all.  I'll favor salads in summer and soups in winter.  I like lacing beans with spices and frying eggs on toast.  But, like so many of you, my lunch often depends on time (or lack thereof).  When I have too few minutes, the meal is hacked apart to something that is little more than a glorified snack.  When I have too much time, I nibble on a granola bar as I try to figure out what to do with myself.  And, in my frustration, the meal often regresses to an un-pretty base level of fuel and sustenance.

I'm not sure what has possessed me to become more creative lately, but I'm appreciative for the personal turnaround.  More and more, I've been perusing the spice rack and chopping herbs for lunch too.  I've set pots to simmering.  I've open the windows and allowed the scent its chance to fully circulate.  Maybe it's spring - I don't know, but I've been decidedly less meek from 11 to 1 pm.  A few days ago, I gathered up the most fortitude of all to tackle a reviled vegetable.  Okay, perhaps that's too strong.  Not everyone loathes a Brussels sprout.  Not everyone (disregarding my husband entirely) wrinkles his nose to this unassuming baby cabbage.  I have to admit, though, that I didn't always feel so charitable towards them.  Shredded or cooked whole, I hated Brussels sprouts growing up.  However, as I so often find in recent years, sometimes a re-introduction can serve to ameliorate a terrible first impression.  Within the last year, I ate Brussels sprouts caramelized in balsamic vinegar at a restaurant.  The effect was like stumbling across a high school bully as an adult, only to discover that the years had whittled him to gentleness.  Brussels sprouts have a natural sweetness that the balsamic vinegar can only accent.  The good stuff, the sweet stuff, might have been there all along.  I  had just missed it.

So, with steely determination, I tried my sprouts.  I know what you want to hear.  You want to hear the exaltation of trumpets and cymbols; you want to hear that I loved it.  I didn't.  I didn't love it, but it wasn't half bad.  I had a friend who really enjoyed "stinky tofu" all over Asia, and I imagine that my lovely Brussels sprouts (and feta) encapsulated both that smell and taste.  I was wondering if, in good conscience and whatnot, I could even post a recipe for something that didn't sound off the horn section.  After much ruminating, I think that I can.  You might be stronger than me.  You might already love your Brussels sprouts, and you might hope to be re-introduced as well.  Besides, I didn't hate them.  I opened windows and let the stinky clouds circulate.  I sat with them for a while. 

Before I studied abroad in Germany as a kid, I didn't care for the language.  Even though, as I later learned, English is also rooted in the Germanic school of languages, I felt little connection.  The country isn't in my ancestry; I didn't care for the sausage and sauerkraut and interesting beer & lemonade concoctions.  It wasn't until I returned home that I missed the choppy, insanely long words.  And the stark German music and fashion.  I missed it so much that I reread my journal a number of times and even ate some sauerkraut.  So, you see, I did indeed eat my Brussels sprouts that were tinged with balsamic vinegar.  I might have enjoyed a bland offering of soup and crackers the next day, but - between you and me - I think I just have to give myself a chance to miss them.

And in case you don't love them and don't even want to miss them, I have to give you some credit for trying.  In this vein, I've also included a recipe for some of the chocolate-iest cookies ever.  They're stripped bare of little but a good bar of dark chocolate and their necessary adhesive ingredients.  Between you and me, I think you just need a chance to miss your Brussels sprouts too.

Brussels Sprouts with Caramelized Onions, Feta, and Pistachios, adapted from heartandstroke.com 

Ingredients

1 pound of Brussels sprouts

1 onion, cut into curly strips

2 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar

Extra virgin olive oil

1/2 cup of  unsalted pistachios, peeled apart and chopped and

1/2 cup feta cheese

Salt and pepper to taste

Instructions

Heat a large, non-stick fry-pan to medium heat.  Add oil and onions and cook for 40 minutes, stirring often.  The onions will get very soft and mushy.  (You can also store these ahead for one day).

Add balsamic vinegar to the sprouts in a separate pan and stir for ten minutes.

Add the feta to the Brussels sprouts mixture and stir.  Top with the caramelized onions and pistachios. 

Chocolate-iest Cookies, adapted from Whole Foods

Ingredients

1/2 stick of butter

1/2 cup sugar

1 egg

1/2 teaspoon vanilla

1 6 ounce bar of dark chocolate (preferably, over 70% cacao)

1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips or cocoa nibs

1 cup unbleached white flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

Instructions

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Cream together sugar and butter.  Whisk in eggs and vanilla.  Melt the chocolate bar until smooth and whisk it into the egg mixture.  Stir in the flour until all of the ingredients combine.  Use a tablespoon to drop the cookies on a cookie sheet that is covered in wax paper.  Bake for 10-12 minutes.

*You also have the option of freezing the dough for an hour first and rolling it to play with cookie cutters.

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.

I had a very civic week.  Now, you might be thinking what I'm thinking - that after studying for the bar exam for a number of months, sitting for it, and thereafter flushing my brain of all things law-related - you might think that I have had sufficient contact with the legal system for a while.  I thought so, too.  But I was summoned.  That's right, friends, a week after the bar exam, I found myself still sleepy and slightly irritable and sequestered in jury duty.  At first, when they read the charges of each defendant aloud, I was momentarily interested (because the definitions all echoed my exam flash cards).  Ultimately however, I realized what voir dire in the criminal division in Pennsylvania really means: sitting knee-to-knee at a tiny table with a defendant who happened to be charged with criminal homicide.  All over again, I ruled out ever becoming a district attorney. 

So, my week was just one of those weeks and I sincerely hope that yours was better.  The heels that I wore were too high.  The line in the social security office (to change my name, which I finally got around to doing) was too long.  The Ides of March gave us that foggy rain that feels exactly like the clouds have begun to spit.  On Wednesday night, I tried to redeem three days of a week that already felt like five.  Jordan was out to dinner.  I had the house to myself.  I put some music on as I cooked.  I grooved a little - as much as someone can groove while rocking out with her wooden spoon.  I attempted a simple curry with tofu and cilantro, over brown rice.  I anticipated a Thursday blog.  I failed miserably.  Our home certainly smelled like street-eating in India, and the sticky mess of it looked amazing in the pan.  Pretty even, in its golden gloppy way.  It made me nostalgic, because as a college student in London, curry was often the only thing that I could afford.  But then I took a bite.  I literally spat, as a baby would.  Now friends, I understand that failure is a part of life.  I understand that the attempt is necessary for growth - to actually learn something.  On an intellectual and detached plane, I understand this.  However, at nine o'clock in the evening on hump day, my curry felt like the very worst sort of failure.  Particularly when my belly rumbled.  Aloud.  I think I ended the evening with something truly delectable, like peanut butter on whole grain toast.  I had conceded defeat.

So, on Thursday, I approached my stove and its accoutrements warily.  On Thursday, I was in no mood to experiment.  I didn't want to be relegated to crackers, you see.  I had made this swanky, showy, too-cool-for-school version of mac n' cheese for family over a summer vacation.  They had loved it, and my grandmother had looked at me with new eyes.  She is sweetness personified, and spends most holidays tucked away in the kitchen, but I do believe that she enjoyed this new passive position of being served.  My grandmother is of the "roast beef for Christmas" "turkey for Thanksgiving" generation.  She does not eat fish.  This became a quick standby, then, as I smacked together crab cakes for the others. 

The best part of this fancy schmancy mac n' cheese is the sauce.  I've come to think of the sauce - and do forgive me any lingering corniness as I admit this on the internet - as a little black dress.  Honestly, it can accommodate whatever you happen to have stocked in the fridge.  Though the recipe calls for chicken and broccoli, you can just as easily dice up some firm tofu or throw in some cannelloni beans.  In the summer, it would work wonders with zucchini and yellow squash.  In the spring, it would surely compliment asparagus.  Thus, to tie off my metaphor with a neat little bow, you can accessorize the sauce with whatever you have on hand.  Like any good sauce, it's a blank canvas.  But most significantly, for my purposes this past Thursday, it always turns out.  And on an evening when you're just not in the mood for surprises (with your feet raw and red from a too-high, too-narrow, too-pinchy pair of heels), nothing tastes quite like that. 

Mac and Cheese with Chicken and Broccoli, pilfered from Bon Appetit, September 2006

Ingredients

1 pound skinless boneless chicken breasts

2 heads broccoli, cut into florets

2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter

2 tablespoons all purpose flour (*wheat flour as another layer of depth here)

4 cups whipping cream (*note that, depending on the thickness that you prefer, you can simply use milk)

1 cup Fontina cheese (about 4 oz.)

1 cup grated Cheddar cheese (about 4 oz.)

1 pound pasta shells, freshly cooked

1/2 bunch fresh chives, chopped

Instructions

Prepare barbecue (medium heat).  Sprinkle chicken with salt and pepper.  Brush both sides with olive oil.  Grill until cooked through, about 6 minutes per side.  Dice chicken and set aside.  Cook broccoli in medium pot of boiling salted water until crisp-tender, about 3 minutes.  Set aside.

Melt butter in heavy large saucepan over medium heat.  Add flour and cook 2 minutes, stirring constantly.  Gradually mix in cream.  Bring to boil, reduce heat, and simmer 10 minutes, stirring frequently.  Add both cheeses and stir until sauce is smooth.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.  Add pasta, chicken, and broccoli to sauce; mix well.  Garnish with chives and serve.

For one whole year of my life, I didn't eat meat.  I wasn't quite a vegetarian, because I still ate fish and shrimp and scallops and various other sea urchins.  I would easily devour a plate of pasta and mussels.  To this day, I don't exactly remember when I started eating meat again.  I think it was during my first semester of law school and, embarrassingly enough, I'm not sure that I put much thought in it.  But that doesn't mean that the question hasn't been with me all along.  To eat meat or to not eat meat - it's been a question that has plagued me since I was a little girl.  

Even as young one, I was perplexed by my society's reasoning.  I loved (and still love) my dog.  It never made sense, no matter how many times I deconstructed the logic, to eat a pig and to not eat my dog.  As I became older, and my world accordingly extended, the logic continued to confound.  In various parts of Asia, I learned, they'll readily eat dog.  In almost every state in India however, they have outlawed the killing of cows.  The Hindus believe cows to be the symbol of "unselfish giving."  And don't even get me started on ducks.  During my summers at the beach, I felt that I literally grew up with the ducklings.  I'd eat my cereal overlooking the bay or watch them waddle along our dock.  One summer, I found a duck egg under our porch and dutifully covered it with leaves in a feeble attempt at protection.  So, while duck pate may be a delicacy in France, I'll readily leave that one for someone else's plate.

If I didn't practice yoga regularly, I might not feel as guilty as I do for eating meat.  In yoga, whatever your form (be it ashtanga, hatha, or iyengar), admitting sheepishly to one's carnivorousness tendencies borders on the taboo.  I've often noticed that an acknowledgment of meat-eating takes the form of an apology.  Even though I stopped being vegetarian, for the aforementioned reasons that I can no longer remember, I might have started up again due to yoga.  Or maybe, due to the fact that I wholeheartedly believe in what yoga represents: being mindful, a levity of being, a being in one with the spirit.  And no yoga teacher, at least as of yet, has led me to believe that I can attain these truths with a hamburger wedged between my teeth.  So, it might have been only a matter of time for me.  I might have given up meat forever.  But then (insert drum roll here), I met my husband.

My husband is an unapologetic, even proud, carnivore.  He's tapered it somewhat with me having taken over the kitchen.  He doesn't eat nearly as much red meat; he's much more amenable to fish and beans.  However, he's also made perfectly clear that his loyalty to meat is firm - as is his never-ending quest for man's perfect hamburger.  In time, I might even give him some blog space to expound on that point.  But I digress.  It's very 1950s (something out of a Deborah Karr movie, really) to say, but I absolutely adore cooking with my husband.  I've even compromised for him.  He allows me to throw some black beans on a homemade pizza and to thrust vegetables into any meal, in any way that I can.  In turn, I indulge with him in a perfectly cooked filet.  At the very least, I'm a ready assistant in his quest to find the perfect hamburger.

So, maybe like you, I've drawn my lines in the sand.  I won't eat any of the babies: the lamb, the veal, etc.  I want my meat organic and cage-free.  I still find it appalling that we eat meal in the United States that the European Union won't even deign to sell, but I digress.  My lines are in the sand.  Because there is no great loyalty, when the wind blows, my lines even shift.  I might someday stop eating meat again, but for now I'm comfortable with being as conscientious as I am.  We don't eat meat everyday.  As a result, when we do, I want it to be perfect.  And in the long line of recipes I intend to share as tantamount to Lizzie's-post-exam-extravaganza(!!!), this daube is perfect.  This daube (while admittedly, nothing less than a process to cook) results in the most tender pork imaginable.  It's pork that will melt in your mouth in a velvet collapse.  Upon eating it, even Jordan was stunned.  He said that he'd never had meat like that before.  I encourage you try it, because each step by itself requires only minimal preparation and effort.  The meat marinades and cooks for three days, resulting in a stew that is nothing less than carmelized. 

All in all, I'm not particularly proud that I eat meat.  I think that I still eat it most of all for emotional reasons.  I want to be able to make my mother's chicken salad, and my grandmother's Thanksgiving turkey.  I'm not ready, not quite yet, to give up that shared history.  And when I do cook meat, when I really commit to it for an evening, it has to be worthy of them.

Pork and Wild Mushroom Daube, pilfered from Food and Wine, February 2007

Ingredients

3 pounds well-marbled boneless pork shoulder, cut into 2 1/2 inch pieces

One 750-millileter bottle Viognier

1 medium onion, thinly sliced

1 medium carrot

Bouquet garni: 6 sprigs each of parsley, thyme and winter savory plus 2 bay leaves and 1 leafy celery top, tied with twine

Spice bundle: 1/2 teaspoon lavender flowers, 12 crushed peppercorns and 12 crushed juniper berries, tied in a cheesecloth

1 1/2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Daube

1 1/2 ounces dried porcini (1 cup)

Water

3 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

Salt and freshly ground pepper

1 tablespoon all-purpose flour

2 1/2 tablespoons brandy

1 large onion, thinly sliced

1 large carrot, cut into 1/2-inch dice

4 ounces fresh pork skin with a thin layer of fact, cut into 2-by-1/2-inch strips

1 head of garlic, separated into cloves but not peeled

10 crushed juniper berries

Reserved bouquet garni

Garnish

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

 1 1/2 pounds oyster and cremini mushrooms, halved if large

Salt and freshly ground pepper

4 garlic cloves, minced

1/3 cup finely chopped parsley

1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

Instructions

1) MARINATE THE PORK: Put the pork in a large bowl.  Add the wine, onion, carrot, bouquet garni, spice bundle and olive oil.  Cover and refrigerate overnight.

2) The next day, pour the pork into a colander set over a bowl.  Discard the onion and carrot.  Squeeze the spice bundle over the meat,then discard the bundle.  Reserve the pork, bouquet garni and the marinade.

3) MAKE THE DAUBE: In a bowl, soak the porcini in 1 cup of hot water until softened, about 20 minutes.  In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil.  Season the pork with salt and pepper.  Add half o the pork to the skillet and cook over moderately high heat until well-browned all over; transfer to a plate.  Repeat with the remaining pork.

4) Return the pork to the skillet and sprinkle with flour.  Stir over moderate heat until the flour has dissolved, about 1 minute.  Add the brandy and carefully ignite it with a long match; shake the skillet until the flames die down.  Return the pork to the plate.  Add the remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil to the skillet along with the onion and carrot.  Season with salt and cook over moderately low heat, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are lightly browned, about 10 minutes.

5) Lift the porcini from the soaking liquid and coarsely chop them; reserve the soaking liquid.  Add the porcini to the skillet and cook for 3 minutes, stirring.

6) Preheat the over to 250 degrees.  Line the bottom of a 4 1/2 quart enameled cast-iron casserole with the pork skin, fat side down.  Spoon 1/3 of the pork over the skin followed by 1/3 of the vegetable mixture and 1/3 of the garlic cloves.  Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle with some of the juniper berries.  Repeat this layering 2 more times.

7) Return the skillet to moderately high heat.  Pour in the reserved porcini soaking liquid, stopping before you reach the grit at the bottom.  Add the reserved pork marinade and bring to a simmer, scraping up any browned bits from the bottom of the skillet.  Boil until reduced 2 cups.  Pour this liquid over the daube.

8) Tuck the reserved garni into the daube.  Add enough water to the casserole to just cover the meat and bring to a boil over moderately high heat.  Place a round of parchment paper directly on the surface of the meat and cover with the lid.  Transfer the casserole to the oven and bake until the meat is tender, about 2 1/2 hours.  Let cool to room temperature.  Discard the parchment paper, bouquet garni and any bits of juniper berry.  Refrigerate the daube overnight.

9) MAKE THE GARNISH: Preheat the oven to 250 degrees.  In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoons of the oil until shimmering.  Add the oyster and cremini mushrooms and season with salt and pepper.  Cover and cook over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms are softened, about 5 minutes.  Remove the lid.  Continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until the liquid has evaporated and the mushrooms start to brown, about 4 minutes.  Add the remaining 1 tablespoon of olive oil and the garlic and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 3 minutes.  Stir in the chopped parsley.

10) Scrape the fat from the surface of the daube and discard it.  Mix the mushrooms into the daube and bring to a simmer over high heat, stirring frequently.  Bake the daube for about 1 1/2 hours, uncovered, until the liquid has reduced slightly and the meat is very tender.  Stir in the vinegar, season with salt and pepper and serve.

First and foremost, my sincere apologies for my recent disappearance for a month.  It wasn't so much that I couldn't blog and/or cook much as I studied for the test -- though my delay was certainly due to those things.  No, I regressed into a much deeper, darker chasm.  For at least three weeks, I lived in a place where I only barely washed my hair.  On the days when my husband came home to see my hair in a curly knot on my head, I winced to hear him ask:  "You did bathe today, right?"  Our friends recently brought over their 15-month-old, and she was infinitely more mellow than me.  Most telling of all for your purposes however, our meals often dwindled to my husband's "bachelor" meals.  You know, chicken lovingly drizzled with barbecue sauce.  We ate lasagna for four days.  In the last week, the week of that troublesome test, we frequented every take-out place that we could find.  So, now you're beginning to understand.  It wasn't so much that I wasn't writing.  No, most sadly of all, the past three weeks left me with very little to write about.

So, before I forget anything else, Happy Belated Valentine's Day!  And before you get yourself in a tizzy, I know that it's a holiday that is manufactured for the greeting card industry.  Hallmark makes a killing.  Healthy relationships require an "I love you," or at least its finest equivalent, more than one day a year.  I do know all of this.  Nonetheless, I can't help but enjoy a holiday dedicated to flowers and chocolate.  I actually wish we had more days which trumpet love and kindness, but my friends have often remarked that I'm too idealistic as it is.  For most years (or at least the years that we have approached February a deux), Valentine's Day is important for my husband and I because it causes us to stop.  You know, we take a breath.  We pencil this date on the calendar in ink.  Our meal takes hours; we look forward to it all week.  We stop.  And, before you start, I understand that we should take this time everyday of the week.  But, even as an over-idealistic newlywed, that's never been my reality.

For this year in particular, I used magic marker to encircle V-Day on the calendar.  After weeks of divesting myself of any remnant of femininity and taking solace in my husband's old sweatpants, I can honestly say that I had the greatest anticipation for this evening with my valentine.  And in all of this studying and narrow-minded focus, it reminded me of something very important - yet easily forgotten: there is life beyond a test.  It was even inspiring.  Jalapeno and cheese biscuits.  Parmesan-encrusted Mahi Mahi.  A sturdy tower of asparagus over brown rice.  Chocolate soufflé, and raspberries with cream.  In only two weeks, I could remind myself on this Valentine's Day, I'll be back.

And so, nearly two weeks later, here I am.  It's March now, and it almost feels like spring.  The sun is high; the temperatures are lingering in the 50s (!!!); these piles of snow will soon be a thing of the past.  Even the robins have come back to us.  I believe that they're a bit impatient as well.  And just as I felt a bit rusty during my work-out this morning, I feel like I have to ease back into cooking.  I'll feel sore tomorrow, but we have to start with the basics.  A little olive oil in the pan.  Chopping vegetables briskly on the cutting board.  Kneading some bread.  So I think I'll start, with your permission, back at the beginning.  I'm starting with this recipe, because it's what I've always made at the end of exams.  I don't know when I started making this bread.  However, I know why I began with it again: on a most base level, it's a question of taking back your own time.  During any stressful period, we don't have time for the bread-making.  These rudimentary elements (the kneading, the hours ticked off, the scents wafting through a quiet home) simply feel like wasted time.  So, now that my time is my own again, I'll begin at my beginning.  This bread won't turn you off, because there's no yeast involved.  This bread won't be too mysterious for you, because it's only uniqueness is the browning of that one elemental ingredient.  So, give it a shot.  It's spring, and we might as well all begin again.

Brown Butter Soda Bread, pilfered from Bon Appetit, February 2006

Ingredients

1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter

3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour (*I use whole wheat; it tastes better)

1/2 cup old-fashioned oats

1 tablespoon sugar

1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

3/4 teaspoon black pepper

1 3/4 cups buttermilk

1 egg white, beaten to blend

Instructions

Position rack in the center of the oven and preheat to 375 degrees.  Stir butter in heavy small saucepan over medium heat until melted and golden brown, about 3 minutes.  Remove from heat. 

Stir flour, oats, sugar, rosemary, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and 3/4 teaspoon pepper in large bowl to blend.  Pour buttermilk and melted browned butter over flour mixture; stir with a fork until flour mixture is moistened.

Turn dough out onto floured work surface.  Knead gently until dough comes together, about 7 turns.  Divide in half.  Shape each half into a ball; flatten each into 6-inch round.  Place rounds on ungreased baking sheet, spacing 5 inches apart.  Brush tops with beaten egg white.  Sprinkle lightly with ground black pepper.  Using a small knife, cut 1/2 inch deep X in top of each dough round.

Bake breads until deep golden brown and tester comes out clean, about 45 minutes.  Cool breads on rack at least 30 minutes.  Serve warm or at room temperature.