February | 2009 | "blackberry-eating in late September"

I have tried, in recent months, to create not only a list before going to that temptation-laden den that is the grocery store, but also a meal plan for the week, so that I can see as I shop how the seemingly random ingredients I toss haphazardly into my cart (inevitably squeaky, sticky, or with a bum wheel) fit together.

Of course, this doesn’t always work. Usually I veer off from my established course (from the meal plan, that is. The shopping cart leads me physically astray throughout the voyage) when I hit the produce section. In very late fall and very early spring, my weakness is asparagus. Pencil-thin spears, that woody green color of new growth – at this time of year these bunches of promise not only attract me from a flavor perspective, but they mean something about the weather. Since it is only February, this is sometimes a lie, but they give me something to look forward to – they permit me brief rememberances of what Spring means (in the sense that the weather warms and the sky blues, not that the allergens arrive).

My new favorite way to cook asparagus is not on the stovetop, as Mom taught me, but in the oven.

I snap the stems of the asparagus and combine them, a scattering of cherry tomatoes, two or three minced cloves of garlic, the juice from half a lemon and the juiced lemon half, sliced, on a baking sheet. I toss my veg liberally with olive oil, then add black pepper and sea salt. At 400, a bunch of skinny spears usually takes about 15 minutes to cook. If you’re feeling less technical about the whole thing, once most of the tomatoes have begun to burst it’s a good time to check for doneness.

We had our roasted asparagus with big, beautiful pan-fried salmon filets. Just salt, pepper, olive oil, and a sprinkle of dill on each.

A friend S. told me today that I hadn’t updated in a while and really should see to my absence. Unacceptable. I sputtered, considering all the usual excuses. I’ve been sick all week. I’m so busy. I have needy students, a dog desperate for exercise, books piling up that need reading, but she was right. I just needed the text, and lord knows I’m not short on text. I talk text in my sleep. Which I’ve been getting a lot of lately, what with being sick.

The point is, she guilted me like a Greek Grandmother. Appropriately enough, my response is Spanikopita!

It was one of those brilliant flashes of leftover magic. Phyllo dough languishing from some fanciful application. Feta just weeping in its own milk to be used. Dill wilting down with every passing day. I usually think of spanikopita either as a kind of delicious Greek lasagna, or as individually wrapped servings. This evening, in what I can see is playing into a theme, I didn’t have the time for either.

Hastily, I buttered and stacked my sheets of phyllo and draped them over a pie dish. Then I mixed a beaten egg, a few slivered green onions, a defrosted, wrung dry box of chopped spinach, at least a tablespoon of chopped dill, crumbled feta, and black pepper, then poured it down onto the dry surface of the top layer of dough and wrapped the whole thing up like a money bag. I pinched the top together, fanned out the edges, and lovingly brushed the outside with butter before baking for half an hour or so.

I’ve never cooked feta long enough to melt it, and something very interesting happens to the flavor. Pavlov wasn’t Greek, but I think you’ll know what I mean when I cite him in relation to my usual reaction to feta cheese. Something about the sharp tang. But this application made the cheese more mellow, almost creamy, and certainly no less delicious.

Happy, S.? There’s another bite/byte where this came from in your almost immediate future…