They’ve made a permanent move from the garage, of course; Our Lady of the Circular Causality Dilemma sits in one corner of our backyard and the chickens have the run of the place all day long. They make good use of our small city plot, digging and scratching for all manner of small, delicious things in the dirt. Until the beginning of autumn, all three chickens—Trotsky (formerly known as Sister Who We Don’t Know What Her Name Is Yet), Sister Jezebel Turgenev, and The Edge—were laying an egg just about every day. Since October or so, it’s just been Trotsky, the Rhode Island Red. Until yesterday, we hadn’t bought eggs since August, when The Edge laid the very first one.

While the novelty of having three hens in the backyard has worn off, I still find their presence tremendously satisfying. Like any creature, each one has her habits. Having watched them all these months, I can tell you that Trostsky is the dominant hen and Sister Jezebel is on the lowest social rung. The Edge is the least aggressive. She is the last to arrive at the gate when I come with stale bread and veggie trimmings, but she will always get her share. Trotsky is the loudest and most vocal these days, singin’ and squawkin’ in the mornings when she lays her daily egg in the nest she’s made in the far corner of the yard, right next to the coiled green garden hose.

We’ve had rats this year. The Earth Machine we got from Metro first attracted them, and they stayed on when they discovered chicken feed and table scraps. Sometimes I tell myself that we have chickens and a compost pile because we are not 100% efficient and we use both to absorb and make use of leftovers from the house. I tell myself that we have rats now because the chickens aren’t at 100% either, inevitably leaving some nibbles behind for the backyard rodents. My feelings towards the rats change often. This week, perhaps in the spirit of Christmas, I am taking a break from wishing them dead.

We’ve had possums, too—or at least one possum, who caused quite a clatter a few weeks ago, just past midnight. After shooing the creature out of the yard and carrying the frightened hens through the dark and back to their coop, we determined that the possum must have been just passing through and curious about the hens and their food. In a city where chickens are regularly lost to raccoons and such, I count myself very lucky that all three of mine have made it thus far unharmed.

Chickens, I have learned recently, do not enjoy being cold. On the first day of this crazy snowstorm, when the flakes were small and the wind was fierce, I found my hens underneath the back porch, hopping from one foot to the other and making low, accusatory clucks. As the snow piled up around Our Lady of the Circular Causality Dilemma, the chickens grew increasingly bothered by the frozen world. They did not, as far as I know, venture beyond the shelter of the porch for more than a week. Their appetites for corn and fresh vegetables grew and, after four days of very cold weather, Trotsky finally stopped laying. Their water froze every day and every night; they huddled close together on their roost underneath a sixty-watt lightbulb we rigged up with a heavy duty extension cord that runs out the kitchen door. Uncomfortable and unaccustomed though they were, The Edge and her sisters were fine—inconvenienced more than anything.

Today the weather outside seems to be improving. The ice and snow began to thaw last night with drip and a trickle, and today all three hens are moving about in their full range, though no doubt with very cold feet. Judging by the racket heard during breakfast (Trostky’s usual egg-laying hour), I’d guess that there’s even an egg to be collected out there, when I get around to pulling my boots on and trudging through the slush.

I am an occasional beta-tester of recipes for America’s Test Kitchen. Those geniuses over in Massachusetts work up a recipe, and then they e-mail it out to folks like me who’ve volunteered to make the recipe at home and report back. Some months later, something very similar appears in Cook’s Illustrated magazine. It’s pretty neat.

To my great delight, an ATK recipe for Best Blueberry Muffins appeared in my inbox a few days ago for testing. It being August and all, I have quite a lot of berries loitering about in the refrigerator and I’ve been making blueberry muffins about once every ten days, searching for The One. The Universe – heck, the internet – is overstuffed with blueberry muffin recipes, many of which, I have found, aren’t worth the effort it takes a person to chew and swallow them.

Yesterday I shopped for the few ingredients Best Blueberry Muffins called for that weren’t already kicking around at home and this morning I tried out the recipe from ATK.

I can’t say that I have ever had a more delicious blueberry muffin. Though they were more work than your average blueberry muffin, the extra five minutes and three dirty dishes are definitely worth the result. These muffins were tender on the inside and absolutely packed with blueberries, yet they hold their shape and have a pleasant texture on the teeth and tongue. The sprinkle of demera sugar on top makes a great, golden, sweet crunch on the muffin tops, leaving the rest of the muffin more blueberry-and-vanilla-y, rather than just plain sweet like so many inferior breakfast pastries.

It would be cosmically unfair (and arguably illegal) for me to share the recipe with you, and for that I apologize. Whether you are into super fantastic blueberry muffin recipes or not, I enthusiastically recommend Cook’s Illustrated magazine – I hear that the television show is really good, too. They’re geniuses over there in Massachusetts, just geniuses.

What is it about cooking and eating outside that makes food taste better?

Simple salad with greens and nasturtium from my garden.

Chicken legs, yellow corn, and asparagus grilled in the backyard fire pit.

Thanks to the Squeeze for the rockin’ photographs.

It was made clear to me last night that I was not, in fact, born with an innate understanding of wok-cookery. While I think I can tell you some of the important things about stir-fry (high heat, large cooking area, speed), this abstract knowledge did not translate to an overwhelming success for my first attempt. I was trying to make this fried rice. It came out all right: edible, even a little bit tasty. I could try to blame my mediocre performance on not having the famed (but impossible to track down) “fried rice tool.” Really, I just don’t know the first thing about Asian cooking.

The Squeeze had much better luck. His recipe specified amounts for each ingredient and he smartly chose a metal utensil instead of the girly purple silicone one I tried to use. Next time, we’ll cut the meat into smaller pieces, scale back the sugar, scale up the chilies, and add more vegetables. For a maiden voyage, however, it was a reasonable success.

The salad rolls were good though. Inspired by another OSF recipe, they are great with my easy peanut sauce.

Meals became a chore – planning, shopping, cooking – in a tiring loop of obligation and frustration. I’ve been busy and have had other things on my plate – sometimes a girl just wants to get fed and move along. It felt a little like writer’s block, or how some people describe losing interest in physical affection. I was beginning to wonder if I was all right, if all of my essential parts were still intact and in order. I am and they are, of course, and I can write that not only because I have recently had a satisfying experience in the kitchen, but also because I know that one bad stretch in the kitchen does not an existential crisis make.

Our first dinner was soba noodles, shrimp and sautéed veggies. It was just plain good, and warm, and easy. Right away I reverted back to the practice of ducking down to look at the flame when adjusting the setting. The water for the noodles came to a boil faster. Shaking the sauté pan back and forth over the grate felt both sublime and comfortingly familiar.

On the afternoon of Day Two, at about the time I usually begin to think about eating, I was cranky. It was a general sort of dissatisfaction about the state of things, owing in part to this lingering winter-ish weather, the understocked nature of my pantry, and the list of phone calls I am putting off making on account of my not liking to make phone calls one itsy little bit. I walked into the kitchen to take stock. I was determined to cook something worth eating. That sort of a project would, at least, certainly keep me busy until it was too late to make the calls. And maybe it would feel good, too.

The pasta machine I recently inherited from a friend was sitting, unexplored, on the dining room table. I took it out of its box, surprised at its heft, pleased by its shine. Today, I decided, would be the day I’d make fresh pasta for the first time. I assembled the pasta machine, clamped it to my dining room table, and pulled Alice Waters from the bookshelf. In The Art of Simple Food, Alice concedes that the prospect of making fresh pasta can be intimidating, but, she writes, “I assure you, it is surprisingly easy.” Thankfully, I required no more encouragement than that.

Unlike other pasta recipes I’ve seen, Alice’s calls for only flour and eggs. No oil, no salt, no squid ink. It’s the simple food thing, and I love it. Having settled on the pasta, at once I saw my dinner plate: the pasta would have fresh basil in it, and atop the noodles would sit a piece of broiled salmon, snap peas, leeks, and red bell pepper. I’d squeeze lemon over the whole lot. This happens sometimes when I am fixing to cook: the plate comes into focus all at once and all I must do is execute the vision. Forgive me for using such overdone language to describe my inspiration, but when it hasn’t happened in so, so long, it’s really quite the thrill.

I flew the nest for the market – the good market, where the vegetables aren’t wilted and I trust the seafood – and returned within thirty minutes to our teeny tiny kitchen.

The pasta was easy – so much easier than I expected it would be. I read Alice’s recipe, I followed her directions, and everything came out great. If only all cookbooks were so successful. Fresh pasta goes like this (and you can download the recipe from the sidebar!): Blend up two egg yolks and two eggs, just beat them with a fork for a minute. I added about a quarter of a cup of minced fresh basil to the eggs. Next, measure two cups of unbleached all-purpose flour. The unbleached part is important to the final texture and flavor of the finished product. Alice says that bleached flour makes pasta gummier, and I believe her. Put the flour into large bowl. Make a mound, and then a depression (well) in the center. Pour the egg mixture into this well. To mix the dough, use your fingers or a fork, and then knead a few times on a lightly-floured surface to create a supple, well-incorporated dough. I added a few sprinkles of water, as my dough was rather crumbly. Alice said that might happen. Divide the dough in half, and form each half into a disc. Wrap both discs tightly in plastic and let rest, at room temperature, for at least one hour. This rest gives the gluten in the flour some time to relax – it will be much easier to stretch, roll, and cut in the machine after the siesta. Once the dough has rested, pass it through the pasta machine opened to its widest setting. Fold in thirds, and pass through again. Repeat twice, or until dough is shiny and smooth. Continue to pass dough through the machine, gradually decreasing the space between rollers until desired thinness is achieved. Cut to desired shape and length.

I hung the cut pasta on the backs of my dining room chairs while I prepared the rest of the dish. Everything else was as simple as can be – cooked to highlight the flavors of the remaining ingredients with minimal fuss. The salmon received sprinklings of sea salt and black pepper. I broiled the fish until it was cooked through and then squeezed a lemon over it. At the same time on the top of the stove, I cooked the noodles (they only took about five minutes) and sautéed julienne of leek, thinly sliced red bell pepper, and snow peas in olive oil and a little bit of butter until they were soft, but not overcooked. The whole lot was thrown onto plates, received another splash of lemon juice, and was delivered to the table. Had the smoke alarm not gone off twice, I dare say it would have been a transcendent culinary experience.

I think it would be unwise to make some booming announcement that The Slump has straightened out. There will be others, as I have so many more meals to cook in the next decades than I have made in the last ones – it is bound to get frustrating again. But on that first night, over soba noodles, The Squeeze and I decided that we will always have a gas stove. It isn’t, of course, that our new cooktop is wonderful enough to turn a disinterested person into an enthusiastic cook, though the difference, for those inclined to care about such things, is remarkable. It is one thing to know that gas cooking feels better, works better, and is more efficient. It is another to stand in front of a lit burner, worrying that you’ll catch your apron on fire, and watch the lit gas lick the bottom of the saucepan. The thrill is genuine, and so long as the excitement lasts, this cook is gonna ride it.

Tonight, I am going to invent some ravioli, also virgin territory. I have ideas for a spinach/onion/pinenut arrangement, and also a sweet potato-ginger filling. I worry that, like the cheese-less enchiladas of ’06, these will be “interesting” rather than “very tasty.” Still, I am excited to try, and happy that the prospect of cooking is no longer intimidating. I assure you, it is surprisingly easy.

It’s funny what can happen to a recipe over time. This dish is something that my family makes, except they call it “chile verde.” The truth, I’m afraid, is that real Mexican chile verde is a pork dish, with an insanely delicious sauce made out of tomatillos and green chiles. The recipe that follows probably started off with pork and tomatillos, but then somewhere along the line someone substituted chicken for pork, tomatoes for tomatillos, left out the onions… It’s total gringa food, but nonetheless very tasty, calls for ingredients that are usually on hand, and is delicious any time of the year. You may download the recipe from the sidebar to the left.

It’s a whole different kind of expectation when gearing up to go to a restaurant that you’ve heard nothing about. When some wingnut with her own food ‘blog writes a rave about the taco cart on Lombard, everyone falls all over themselves in a rush for the famed carnitas, right? The eager gastrophiles cram in line and take turns reciting their favorite lines from the wingnut’s review. They know what to expect, so there’s no use waiting. It lacks suspense. But when the only notions you have of a place are of your making entirely, it’s a whole different show. The story is yours to write and until you’ve walked into the restaurant for the first time, nothing will contradict you.

So it was with the Thai Laundromat. I imagined the two businesses might be joined on the inside as well, giving diners a view of their tumbling whites while enjoying a plate of salad rolls and peanut sauce. I smelled dryer sheets and stain remover mingling above my head with the aromas of garlic, ginger and coconut milk wafting up from the meal. While I was eager to perhaps add a new eatery to my list, this game of make-believe was a guaranteed good time, and I wasn’t up for disappointment should the place turn out to be a dive. Frankly, I was prepared to be pleased if the food turned out to be just a notch above edible.

And then on one otherwise unremarkable day, I decided to quit dreaming and taste the stuff.

That was months ago, and now I regard the Thai Laundromat as my place, the food I am always in the mood for, the restaurant to which I take all new friends and out-of-town visitors. I’ll admit to being somewhat fanatical here, but for me the Thai Laundromat is all that I love of my neighborhood, poured into vinyl booths and large, ornate wooden carvings, into steamed white rice, green curry, and fresh salad rolls.

You would never know that the restaurant has a self-serve laundromat for a conjoined twin. Their skins may look similar, but entering the restaurant renders unsustainable all thoughts of bleach and dryer sheets and change machines. You might admire the lovely glass light fixtures hanging over the tables and booths, or the display case of teeny figurines just inside the street entrance. You may even notice that there are other people present, but soon your world narrows to the menu, to your company at the table, and to the fantastically good food.

I need you to appreciate the gravity of the following sentence: I could eat the Thai Laundromat’s Pumpkin Curry every day for a month and not tire of it. A surprise to some of the folks I’ve eaten with there, the pumpkin curry isn’t made with the jack-o-lantern type pumpkins most familiar to the western palate. Rather, it features the kabocha squash, which you may have seen before in Japanese cooking, perhaps on a plate of tempura veggies. The kabocha is a squat winter squash with rough-looking (though edible) dark green skin. It is egg yolk yellow on the inside, and the texture of the flesh falls somewhere between silky and crumbly. I’ve never met a kabocha that I didn’t love. It is sweet and earthy. It is just the thing to add to the Thai Laundromat’s spicy sweet coconut-and-basil curry sauce.

I’ve tried to work my way through the menu. About sixty percent of the time, I manage to order something other than the Pumpkin Curry. Usually, this is only possible because I’ve talked someone else into getting it and sharing with me. The Pineapple Fried Rice is always a winner, and features a ton of the largest cashew nuts I have seen anywhere. Drunken Noodles make me wiggly. The Peanut Curry, not printed on the regular menu (it was a special once, and I’ve just kept on ordering it), is one of the best things I have ever tasted anywhere. Rather than itemize my delights, which will only keep you here longer when you should be putting on your coat to go find this place, I’ll instead share my only two disappointments. I’ve had two stir-fries that were merely good, not great. The Garlic and Pepper and the Cashew Nut dishes just don’t live up to the (very high) standards that this place has set for itself. I finished them both of course, scraping the bowl with the plastic spatula I’ve taken to carrying in my purse when I eat there, but the high wasn’t as euphoric as I’ve come to expect of the place.

I have one other complaint about the Thai Laundromat: it’s getting crowded in there. Every time I go in for a meal it feels busier, like someone’s let the secret out. In the beginning of my relationship with the restaurant, back when I was only a causal user, some days my friends and I were one of only a few groups for lunch or dinner. These days, most of the tables are filled and there is a regular flow of folks who stop in for take out orders.

It’s hard to know just what to do when a gal finds a really great restaurant like this. Selfishly, I am tempted to want to suspend it in time. I want there always to be an open table for me. I want the food to be as good tomorrow as it was today. In fact, I don’t think I could handle it being any better. A diet of little more than coconut milk, basil, and kabocha squash probably lacks some necessary nutrient or vitamin or something. I hope they never reupholster the booths or repaint the neon green bathroom, and I hope they never have to hire a new cook or server. One in six visits, the place really does smell a bit like laundry detergent, and I like that too. But it’s unreasonable and unhealthy to resist the sort of inevitable change that marks the growth and maturing of a good restaurant. As the neighborhood changes, the Thai Laundromat will have to change a little bit with it, and I really ought to celebrate their success, not mourn it.

I love watching the slow grins bloom across the faces of my more skeptical friends when they take their first bite of green curry or spring roll. You said it’d be good, they tell me, but I didn’t think it was gonna be that good. It seems that now my desire to go public with this pleasant surprise is larger than my wish to keep the Thai Laundromat all for myself, as if that were even possible. I have heard other happy patrons chatting about the upswing in business, and I am ready to make peace with having to share my find with the rest of the city. So, dear readers, go there. Go if you love Thai food, because you won’t be disappointed. Go if you’ve never had Thai food and you want to try it. Go even if you think you hate Thai food, because I am confident that this place will change your mind. Go, and then tell your friends, your mom and your colleagues about it. If it’s going to get crowded in there, at least we can try to fill it with people who have good taste in little known food ‘blogs.

Monsoon Thai Cuisine
4236 N Mississippi (at Skidmore)
503.280.7087

To make these oddly addictive coconut-habanero scones, begin with this recipe for the strawberry almond variety. Omit the strawberries and the almonds. To the flour mixture in step one, add one cup of lightly toasted coconut and one habanero chili pepper which you have seeded and very finely minced.

Sweet and Nutty Granola

Today I cooked and baked in honor of the chill and the clouds and the drying leaves. I made some of my cool weather favorites, imagining with happy expectation the winter rains that are coming and the cozy curling up I’ll do once the weather demands that I tuck in my garden, take out extra blankets for the bed, and re-light the basement furnace. Summer may not be over – indeed, I am counting on a few more warm days for both my seedlings and my sanity – but there’s an unmistakable twinge in the air. You can smell Fall here, and right now it smells like warm wine, soup, and crunchy, stick-to-your-ribs cereal.

Wine-Poached Figs

Potato Leek Soup(revised recipe)

Mulling Spices for Apple Cider or Wine