JELLY ROLL JIVE

This weekend, a few of our wonderful neighbors had a locally grown tapas night. If you follow my husband's blog, you know by now that we really like our neighbors. We are the oldest among them, but possibly the least mature. Kurt has been known to don a knight's helmet and shield to do battle with the young son of one of the families. Its a tough job, but he's happy to do it.

Among the glorious items brought to the table by the different families, was asparagus from Eastern Washington, local salad greens, a quinoa salad with home grown and dried black beans, several home-baked breads, and a potato frittata (or tortilla, as we were in a Spanish tapas mode).

The only things local about the cake that I took were the eggs. Our hens are old and cranky, but they each manage to give us an egg every couple of days. The cake those eggs helped leaven was a Jelly Roll or Roulade. I haven't made a sponge cake in ages. The recipe I used is from the Better Homes and Garden Cook Book. You know the one - the 3-ring binder with the cheery red and white checked cover. Any self-respecting woman born in the 50's and married off in the 70's knows the one I'm talking about.

What got me thinking about the cake was a walk that I was taking through food blog world one day when I ran across a Mascarpone cheese frosting recipe. The only revision I made to Ms. Stewart's Mascarpone icing recipe is that I added some of my own strawberry jam for a little more flavor and a sweet pink color. After the final roll up, I frosted the cake with a thin chocolate gloss and piped some of the leftover filling over the top. One of the more excitable neighbors exclaimed, "Its a giant Ding Dong!"

For the kids (and Kurt!) I made Peanut Butter and Jam Thumbprint Cookies. In these, I used the wonderful local soft white wheat pastry flour from Nash Organic Produce and more of my strawberry jam. I bought the flour at our Saturday Farmer's Market, a treasured part of where we live. The chewiness and the nutty flavor of the flour was great in these cookies.

We ate a lot and laughed even more. We talked about the food, where it came from, and how we prepared it. It was a fun and tasty evening full of good lessons and more.

LETTUCE PRAY

Did I tell you that I'm a vegetarian? (Since only a few friends and family members are reading this, I know there won't be many gasps of surprise.) I have been several kinds of vegetarians in my life. When Kurt and I were young and invulnerable, we were the kind of vegetarians that would share a large platter of pasta, an entire loaf of home baked bread, and an apple pie at one sitting. We both grew to realize our highest body weights ever as that kind of vegetarians. Frankly, I just don't get it. Pasta sauce and apples are vegetables and fruit, no?

Now we are the kind of vegetarians who eat vegetables. We haunt the Farmer's Market and the outside aisles of the grocery store. We grow what we can and buy what we can't. Salads! We love salads! To keep you from imagining that I think that I'm holier than thou art, just let me tell you that we also love cream and butter and eggs and anything made with cream and butter and eggs. And wine and beer and the homemade flour tortillas from the local grocery. . . See how this happens? If you're not careful, even a vegetarian can end up as a little fatty.

As we speak, there is a tray of veggies roasting in the oven. Red potatoes, a chopped up garnet yam, some radishes and some darling baby turnips. (And yes, I saved those darling baby turnip greens for another meal.) The veggies were washed, dried on a towel, put into a plenty-large bowl and drizzled liberally with olive oil. Sprinkled with some rather extravagant smoked salt and the classic white, black and green pepper blend with allspice, it was mixed together and spread, not too crowded, on a sheet pan. The oven is 350 degrees. The cook is hungry.

When all is fork tender and lovely, it will go on a bed of mostaciolli with a ladylike crumble of goat cheese over top. If the spirit moves me, there may be some toasted pine nuts in the picture. I love veggies! If this was smell-o-blog and you could have what I have right now, you would say the same. Wait! You can have what I have. Get roasting!

p.s. While leaving a bit of the stems on the darling baby turnips looks chic, be aware that this creates a hiding space for sand. If you don't like that abrasive crunch with your upscale, fork-tender veggies, be sure to rinse well!

A GIRL NAMED SOUS CHEF

I have known Karen since before I was twenty, before I was married, and before I became a mother - all very informative parts of my life. She has been a constant presence in my life through all the decades since we first met. Karen, her husband Jimi, my husband Kurt and I started socializing and quickly became best friends. In the years since Kurt and I moved to the West Coast, they've faithfully made the 3,000 mile trek to see us nearly yearly.

We two couple also traveled together - mostly to the Southwest, where we would rent wonderful houses with stucco walls and tiles floors cool under our bare feet - or to the mountains of the Pacific Northwest where we would stay in rustic log cabins. Most significant, though, is that Karen and I would COOK. In my kitchen, in her kitchen, and in the strange kitchens of all those rented houses, we would cook, and at all times, I was happily and ever, her sous chef.

Karen and I are so different in the kitchen, that it would seem amazing to an outsider that we could even get along. She follows recipes carefully; I tend to think recipes are for wimps. She loves kitchen gadgets; I finally got a Kitchenaid mixer in my mid-50s and still don't own a food processor. She likes her eggs cooked very dry; I like mine just barely warmed through. She is deeply creative where I just muddle along in that arena.

And yet in the kitchen, while we laughed to tears, fought, made up, drained countless bottles of wine, shared our secrets and whispered our fears, we moved past friendship and straight into sisterhood. We became the fully-formed adults that we are today because of each other. While we were teaching ourselves how to make tamales and sushi, we were also learning how to be strong and confident women.

One of the last times we cooked together, the four of us had rented a cabin in the mountains. I made a pizza that was a complete mess. Had it been just a bit worse, it would have gone into the trash and we would have gone looking for a restaurant. But people were either polite or hungry enough to eat it without complaining. This weekend, I made the pizza below. It turned out better than that pizza of last year and Karen, the flour for this dough was a local organic soft wheat pastry flour. Pretty cool, huh? How I would have loved to have you and Jimi here eating it with us!

Today Karen has a disease that keeps her in a wheelchair. She has difficulty communicating and can no longer cook. Now, when I make the trip to her house, I cook for Karen in her beautiful kitchen tricked out with her beloved gadgets. I do my best to make food that I know she will enjoy eating and that will fill her up and bring her contentment. As I poke around in her cupboards looking at the amazing bunch of ingredients she has accumulated, I realize that being the sous chef to my dear, dear sister-friend has been a privilege and a pleasure that sustains me and keeps me growing.

Karen, I think about you at all times of the day, but most especially when I walk into my kitchen to start a meal. There, you are my muse.