Not Just Any Tripod

I realized that my camera had sat in my drawer all day long when I looked out the window less than half an hour ago and the round yellow lights outside each apartment in my complex had started to glow.

The flood lights from the university's baseball field (just across the fence) defied the setting sun.

I took a look at the bowl of soup I had just warmed up and headed out onto the landing to take advantage of the last moments of daylight, but it was a struggle holding the camera steady enough in my hands. I ran inside for my trusty tripod and memories flooded back as I twisted the small device into the bottom of my camera.



This isn't just any tripod. It's plain and simple and probably cost me $5 at Fred Meyer, but it was purposefully bought in the weeks leading up to my college semester abroad. At nineteen years old I was gearing up for four months in Oxford, England and saying I was excited doesn't even begin to describe it.

Sure, life follows you wherever you go, and the trials it brings certainly found me in Oxford too, but that place was beautiful. It wasn't just the old brick homes, the cobblestones along Cornmarket, the slew of pedestrians that I kept company with on the sidewalks (politely ignoring each other, of course), or the lush green landscape maintained by drizzly rain (reminding me of home) that made it this way. It was the close friendships with my housemates and the more informal ones with my fellow volunteers at Oxfam. It was the adventure of surfacing from the underground in a new city (often across the Channel) and finding our way.

And it was specific moments like when my friend, Erin, and I spent sunset at the ruins of the Temple of Apollo. It sits on top of a hill off the coastline of the city of Naxos, on the island of Naxos, Greece, and the wind from the sea whips up and over it as the sun silently but dramatically sets in shades of pink and purple.

That particular night my little tripod came out of my purse once again so we could set up the self timer, huddle on the ground, and attempt to hold our hair down for the camera. It was at least the hundredth time we had chosen to entertain ourselves in this way since becoming friends back in Oxford, and along the way we had decided our faithful travel companion (yes, the tripod) deserved a name. I really don't know where it came from, but Trevor was one of our first ideas and it stuck.

Trevor the tripod.

Trevor continued to go everywhere with us, and we looked for opportunities to drop statements like, "I need some Trevor in my life" and other nonsense. Though the Trevors I've met (the people-type) haven't necessarily been tall, dark, and handsome, somehow the little tripod took on that persona.

So tonight I just thought I'd introduce you to Trevor. He helped me get this shot of my cup of soup, after all. And it's meant just for you.

Urging Fall into Existence

The walls of my bedroom are empty. I still haven't gotten around to putting up my maps, photos, and artwork since moving in and haven't minded so much, but today their white scratchy texture is ominously silent. I think it's time to let myself settle in a bit more.

One year just sounds like so little time until I pack up my bags, tuck my college diploma under my arm, and head off to another chapter of life.

Yesterday I came back from a couple days in Dallas, and sometimes it is leaving that reminds me that I don't mind staying. This apartment in Abilene is the closest thing to home I have right now. So it's time to decorate the walls.

It's time to let myself move in a bit more and release some grudges against this place that has become home against my will. One grudge I hold right now is against the weather. It is so dang hot here, and we just stepped into October!

I'm looking forward to the night I can crawl into bed and pull all my warm, heavy blankets on top of me. I've tried, but within a couple minutes, I end up kicking everything except the sheet down to the bottom of the bed. I'm hanging onto the idea of baking on a Saturday and enjoying the warmth from the oven, versus walking into another room as often as possible to cool off. And I'm anticipating the foods of fall. Right now, they just don't suit very well. But still I try.

Last night I tried to whip up some fall fare, and it was delicious, despite the fact that as we sat down in the coolest part of the house we could find, our warm bowls did little to keep our sweat at bay.

But if you are in a cooler place than I am, then I encourage you to pull out your cornmeal and make some classic polenta. Its golden yellow color just goes so well with the changing leaves. And even if you're not heading into fall (because I know spring is beginning for my southern friends), polenta is just so good. I don't think your stomach can ever protest against this stuff.

I took my leftover french red onion soup, which I had gratefully been working on since making a big pot of it, and found that age allowed the flavors to mellow out very pleasingly. Slowly softening them a little while longer, and scooping them onto creamy polenta, with the gruyère I bought to accompany they, made for a very happy combo.

It's perfect for fall. Or for those of us who just like to pretend.

Basic Polenta
Based off so very many sources but mostly common sense.

6 cups water
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups stone ground cornmeal
1 tablespoon of butter (or up to 3)

Bring water to boil in heavy saucepan. Add salt, and reduce heat to low. Then slowly pour in cornmeal, stirring with a whisk as you go.

Attentively whisk for the next five minutes or so to prevent lumps. Then cover and stir every few minutes. Continue to do this until cornmeal grains have softened and begins to pull away from sides of the pan, about 30 minutes.

Remove from heat. Stir in chunks of butter until melted and combined. Serve immediately.*

*The picture you see at the top of the page is of my polenta the next day, so it has more form to it after being in the fridge in a container. Yours should spread out more on the plate or within the bowl.

French Red Onions
Adapted from this recipe

Red onions, prepared according to this recipe**
3 tablespoons port wine
Gruyère

Using a generous amount of butter (depending on how many onions you have and how much softer they need to get -- I had about half of my soup left and used 4 tablespoons of butter) heat red onions (strained from broth) in a heavy skillet at medium-low heat.

Occasionally stir, slowly letting onions soften, about 30 minutes (mine needed this much time because they never got as soft in the soup-making process). Pour in a generous splash of port. Allow all to combine for a couple more minutes.

Spoon onions and sauce over polenta. Shred gruyère over top.

**I had made the soup earlier in the week. Obviously, you don't have to go through the exact same process to get these red onions. I have ideas for how to get the complex flavor of the already prepared onions without a lot of broth left over, but since I did not do it, I do not want to give you specific directions. I'm sure you can figure it out with some experimentation. Just don't neglect the anise. (It's not so bad after all.)

Anise & Me

Being that it is Wednesday evening, I think we should all settle down with a drink of choice in the crook of a cushy couch and let out a good, long sigh. Maybe gaze out a window at the people moving about in the dim light of an ending day, at the rain drops collecting on your window screen, or turn your attention back toward the warmth of the room you're in and give thanks for the people also living under your roof (if not applicable, give thanks for this roof you are fortunate to possess). At least that's what I'm trying to do today. I find that it's the best way to find energy for the last two days of a weary week.

I'm also trying to figure out what to tell you about the soup I made myself for dinner tonight. It falls somewhere between heavenly and ho-hum. Within this wide spectrum, I'd probably place it at "disappointing." Maybe my hopes were too high, but when I read the words star anise, red wine, and gruyere, I immediately filed this variation on french onion soup into the forefront of my mind, determine to collect the necessary ingredients over the course of the next week.

The attractive little red onions at the farmer's market motivated me further (bordering the white ones).

So, today was the day for my eagerly anticipated, first ever, french onion soup. The entire process was simple and brief (about half an hour), though a little too much time in front of the stove for a warm September night like this, but I was determined (and too exasperated with Texas's relentless heat to care).

The disappointment came with the lack of wow factor in this dish. Without the bubbly gruyere and thick slice of rustic bread, it would have been barely tolerable. The dominating flavor in the broth was the anise, and, while I gravitated toward this recipe because of the anise-touch, I found myself resenting it once the soup was made. I seem to have a vague memory of eating or drinking something with too much anise in it, and that memory was awakened during my supper.

I so want to like anise. In fact, I refuse to state that I don't. We're just in the midst of an uncomfortable relationship right now. Maybe if it was a more subtle flavor in my long-dreamed-of french red onion soup, I wouldn't find it so disagreeable.

If there is a next time for this soup, I will be using only one whole star anise. Between now and then, I do expect to be trying more french onion soups. I want to go back to the classic and learn what that tastes like. I want to bake up more whole wheat country bread and cut the leftovers into big slices to go in the freezer until it's time to grate a pile of soft, pungent gruyere, and generously sprinkle the stringy cheese on top of the wedge of bread, already soaking up the heat and juices of sweet, oniony broth. Broiled and bubbly, this makes any soup weigh toward the side of heavenly, even if anise and I do not like each other.

Let me know what you think:
French Red Onion Soup Recipe

I am also interested in your favorite french onion soup recipe!

A soup story

I keep hoping that the more soup I make the more quickly autumn will come. This particular week I've been progressively working on one batch of soup.

I combined most the ingredients last Friday.
Ignored it through the weekend.
Ate a small bowl with my roomie for lunch Tuesday.
Dumped it in the blender with some squash and garlic on Wednesday night.
Sat down to enjoy a truly satisfying soup (topped with Gouda and toast) at 12 o'clock today.

Now allow me to back up and share the origins if this creation...

Once upon a time there was a large amount of great northern beans in the back of a resourceful college girl's fridge. They had been quite patient in awaiting their contribution to her menu but squirmed each time she opened the fridge in search of lunch or dinner. The girl noticed this, and it made her nervous as well because no matter how many beans she tossed into pasta or salad they remained an intimidating bunch.

Finally, one Friday evening she pushed past the feta, roasted red peppers, and yellow squash and grasped the smooth rounded surface of their tupperware. With no recipe before her, an otherwise by-the-books sort of girl sauteed some onions with olive oil in the bottom of a saucepan as she set to work chopping the remainder of her carrots and zucchini. Once the onions were soft, in went vegetable broth, carrots, zucchini, and the delighted beans. To avoid a novel, let us just say that the whole thing got a little overcooked and the cumin seeds that were sprinkled in became a little too potent.

Excitement died; outside the leaves appeared greener than ever; soup was forgotten.

Tuesday morning held the promise of fall. Fog descended upon the girl's town and with it all the sentiments that go along with most October days, including a desire for soup. So out came the humble combination of beans, veggies, broth, and cumin; it was heated in two bowls for two girls with hungry bellies. Both bellies and girls agreed the little soup was not a lost cause.

With half of a soft, warm acorn squash in one hand and garlic press in the other, Wednesday night a determined young woman set about rescuing her soup. She dumped the already soft zucchini and carrots along with beans, broth, and onion--oh, and cumin--into a blender and spooned in squash. A small amount of garlic added needed flavor. In no time at all the mixture was a beautiful yellow, like a fall sweater from anthropologie, and silky smooth.

As Texas typically behaves, the next day would not have been considered a "soup day" for it was once again sunny and warm. However, the woman found herself in a soup mood out of sheer curiosity. Would the simple medley of flavors and textures work? Just to make sure, she added two ingredients that never ever do harm: cheese and bread. And this is what she got...



It was quite a lovely ending to a long story!