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Outside my kitchen window, the mountain laurel is taking shape. In a week, I could be looking at a purple waterfall perfuming the air with a fragrance reminiscent of some childhood drink—grape-ade? It must be spring. In the stores, the bunches of cilantro grow thicker, and asparagus seems to have found its true season. I’m garnishing platters with pansies and arugula and the pink-purple of ornamental kale. My friends are bringing me yard eggs because their chickens have started laying again, celebrating the lengthening days and the buckets of compost I send their way. Opening those recycled cartons, I find the eggs—moss greens and taupe, ecru and tan—like rounded river rocks, collected and polished, lined up in a row for me. And this is an early Easter we have coming this month, everything tumbling by so fast, the pace of the world stumbling over its own haste. How do we go about slowing it down long enough to remember the passage of the days? Maybe through tradition. Maybe by pulling from the past a familiarity that allows memory some resonance that anchor us in time, just as we threaten to hurtle past everything we know. So here we are at another holiday, its commercial symbolism run amok with flower bedecked crosses and bunnies, baby chicks and blossomy hats. I try to push past all that and remember the Easter spent in the dunes of Padre Island with my boys who were slightly too old to hunt the eggs we had dyed, but hunted them anyway, then hid the ones they found for the small children in the neighboring campground who wondered why the Easter Bunny had not hidden eggs for them. I remember hands stained purple and blue for days and deviled eggs with a marbled mosaic of dye running up their sides. |
I remember the green cellophane of Easter grass strewn across the floor and the crumpled pieces of foil from chocolate eggs alongside the jars of pale pink pickled pigs’ feet that are a tradition in our family. (Don’t ask, and I won’t tell.)But what I really remember are the meals because they are a chance to insist on family and friends, to insist on sitting down, on slowing down together. There were meals painted beneath the overhanging lavender loops of wisteria vines. Meals rushed inside because of rains that silvered the windows and heightened the urgency of the food. Meals eaten in sunlight. Meals eaten by candlelight. There was flaky pink salmon and rosemary lamb. Asparagus and sugar snaps. Minted potatoes and wild rice. Strawberry shortcakes, lemon meringues and bunny cakes with jelly beans. There was orange juice and iced tea and champagne. Easter is not a holiday, like Thanksgiving, that binds itself inextricably to one set of plans, but rather it runs alongside the spring fed stream of renewal. It celebrates spring and all that is springlike, moving away from the heavy braises of winter without quite giving up the need for warmth, a last bid for comfort food before summer sets in. One of my favorite Easter menus is grilled butterflied leg of lamb with roasted mint and garlic new potatoes. This is not a foolproof menu. The world is rife with situations that demand our prayer because it seems there is so little else to give, but if you are serious about grilling the lamb, say a small prayer for sunshine on that day, both actually and metaphorically. It makes the grilling easier. Keep in mind that if it rains, you have an alternative. You can move the whole event inside and use your broiler. |
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Grilled Butterflied Leg of Lamb 1 leg of lamb, butterflied (ask your butcher for help if butterflying is not in your lexicon) 2 Tablespoons or more of chopped and mashed, peeled fresh garlic 2 Tablespoons of chopped fresh rosemary Olive oil 1 lemon Salt and pepper About an hour before grilling, spread the lamb leg out and, with a meat mallet, pound on the thicker parts until the meat is more uniformly thick. Rub a paste of garlic, rosemary and olive oil over both sides of the leg of lamb and sprinkle generously with salt and pepper. Light your barbecue fire on one side of the pit and wait until coals are covered with a gray ash, then spread them out evenly. You want a medium to medium-low fire. (Too much heat and the fat from the lamb will cause a small conflagration, causing charred meat.) Cook about 15 minutes a side for medium rare—about 125 degrees on a meat thermometer. If the fire gets too hot, pull the lamb over to the side until the flames die down. It should be pink in the middle when you take it off. Let it sit for about 15 minutes before thinly slicing. Roasted Mint and Garlic New Potatoes (Serves 8) 24 size “C” red-skinned new potatoes (or any thin-skinned or fingerling potato) 2 Tablespoons olive oil Seasoned salt 1 Tablespoon chopped and mashed, peeled fresh garlic (or to taste) 1 Tablespoon chopped fresh mint (or to taste) Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Coat potatoes lightly in olive oil, spread out on a cookie sheet and sprinkle with seasoned salt or just salt and pepper. Roast in the oven, shaking the pan occasionally for about 30-35 minutes until the potatoes can be easily pierced with the tip of a knife. Remove from oven and let cool until you can handle them. Mix some olive oil with garlic and mint to form a light paste. Cut potatoes in half and toss with mint-garlic mixture until lightly coated. Season with salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. May be served hot or at room temperature.
As you have probably gathered, these are not recipes that hinge on exact measurements. The measurements are meant as guidelines, only. I would also suggest that you parboil some sugar snap peas at the last minute and toss them with a pat of butter and a light seasoning of salt and pepper. Add a spring salad of mixed greens with a light vinaigrette and some airy yeast rolls. To start the whole thing off, think deviled eggs. To end, think strawberries. Say a prayer for peace. Be thankful for your friends and family, for mint and rosemary, lamb and chickens, for sunshine and rain.
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