5 second rule

Iconoclast

Did you guys read Elizabeth Weil's article in Sunday's New York Times Magazine about the Humphry Slocombe ice cream shop in San Francisco?  I did, and I reacted with equal parts fascination and revulsion.  Fascination, because ice cream flavors like Malted Milk Chocolate, Candied Ginger, Cinnamon Brittle, and Brown Butter sound so good that I seriously considered hopping in my car and driving up to San Francisco to try them.

(Okay, that was a total lie.  I loathe that drive.)

But then I kept reading, and I learned that the owner and mad scientist behind the shop also makes prosciutto flavored ice cream, foie gras-gingersnap ice cream sandwiches, and a coconut caramel sorbet with candy cap mushrooms. 

I said mushrooms. 

Now I love mushrooms more than the average person.  In fact, I sliced up a fat portobello last night and topped it with a knot of spaghetti.  What I did not do, however, was churn that fungus into a creamy, iced, dairy dessert. 

But Jake Godby of Humphry Slocombe did, and does, apparently do such things with mushrooms, and jalapenos, and cheese, and pork. And, according to the NYT article, he's both despised and beloved for this barrier-breaking artistry, and his chutzpah.  Godby didn't appear out of nowhere, either, simply to shock. He honed his pastry chops at some of San Francisco's most revered, high-end restaurants.

Since I haven't eaten there, though, let's broaden the discussion to one about originality, and whether, and how much, you and your palate like to experiment.  I mean, do you essentially make the same 10 or 15 dishes over the course of a month?  Do you eat at the same restaurants over and over?  When you hit the cereal aisle, do you, or do you not, always reach for the same familiar box?

Maybe we'd all be better off if we shook things up a little. 

Given the list of ice creams at Godby's shop, tell me which 2 or 3 you'd order, and which 2 or 3 you would, quite simply, not, even if offered large sums of cash money.  Be honest now.

As for my profiteroles above, I won't tell you what kind of ice cream I tucked inside.  Use your imagination.

(Maybe it's Vanilla Motor Oil.)

Outside

I would like to live outside.  To set my bed in the open air.  To sleep among the winking stars.  To glow in moonlight.  To gather ripe berries at dawn, plucking and eating, squishing and devouring until my hands and mouth bleed tie-dye, reds and blues and blacks tattooing my palms like varicose veins, or a toddler's spin-art collage.

Two weeks ago, as part of my attendance at the Sustainable Foods Institute, I returned once again to Carmel Valley, to Earthbound Farm, scene of this post from last year.  The team there laid out another spectacular lunch, this time showcasing recipes from owner Myra Goodman's forthcoming book, The Earthbound Cook: Recipes for Delicious Food and a Healthy Planet.

Aside from the endless variety of food, which included, once again, the garbanzo bean salad Clare and I tried to recreate months ago, the gardens preened.  Feathery herbs nuzzled tiny daisies, and the sun held court.  When Earthbound's Janna  Williams, above, spontaneously crafted a bouquet, I felt like I'd been dropped into a glossy fashion shoot. When I garden, I'll have you know, I do not look like Janna.  My ripped jeans wear mud make-up, my hair flies in seven directions.  I come inside and people run away, screaming in abject terror.

I don't care, though.  I'm still trying to grow stuff.  I'm currently watching radishes send emissaries up through the soil, and cursing the slugs that taste-test my basil.  Each day, four or five times, I run out to see what has grown.  Has that tomato-flower just been born?  Does the mint stretch taller?  Are the beans content?

To see a funny shot I took of some celebrity chefs that day in Carmel, please visit the 5 Second Rule Facebook page here.  I stood behind the official portrait photographer and caught a moment of spontaneous mirth.  Top Chef and Top Chef Masters fans, look closely.

May your summer gardens feed you well. 

And may basil-eating slugs meet their maker.

Ideal/Real

There's the ideal, and there's the real. In an ideal world, public schools would have enough money to offer core academic subjects, plus music, art, drama, and foreign language.  There'd be funds for PE and funds for enrichment.  There'd be cash for extras, too, like nutrition education.

The reality is this: schools are stretched, and if parents see a need to fill, they've got to step up, or their priorities won't be met.  Sometimes their initiatives succeed, and sometimes they don't, but doing nothing is the surest way to guarantee stasis.

This is a story about one individual, one company, one school, and a creative partnership to solve a national problem.  By way of background and disclosure, this is about the school my children attend, though I was not involved in this success story.  In fact, I initially didn't want it to happen at all.

...

With all the national hoopla about childhood obesity, questionable cafeteria food, and an entire generation of kids accustomed to eating pockets and nuggets instead of stew, or soup, or salad, there may be hope when the public and private sectors collide.   Such partnerships can be political and tricky if not forged carefully, but the stark truth is that a private company may have the resources to promote healthful eating when a public school district lacks the funds to do so on its own.

Two weeks ago, a local mother at my kids’ school named Lisa Harris brought Jon Husting of Fresh Choice, a California-based restaurant chain known for its long salad bars, to lead a fresh vegetable tasting for 600+ kindergarten through fifth graders.  Over the course of five days, Husting met each class in the library, talked about the importance of eating a variety of colorful produce, and then led the kids outside.

He'd arrived early each morning to set up a table filled with whole produce, and bins filled with eight different sliced vegetables -- green peppers, radishes, jicama, carrots, red leaf lettuce, baby spinach, zucchini, and yellow squash. He, Lisa, and a few parent volunteers (I helped only on day one, since I was traveling the rest of the week) then filled a plate for each child with samples from each of the bins.  The children returned to their classrooms with their colorful loot, and their teachers chatted with them about what they were tasting.  The school’s principal, Robin Jones, animatedly made the rounds, telling the kids how proud she was of them.

Did all kids like all the vegetables?  Of course not.  But they were excited.  Excited to see a long table filled with food outside the library for an entire week; excited to eat snacks outside of official snack time; excited that the principal, and their teachers, were encouraging and enthusiastic; and excited to try something new.  Lisa reported that kids swarmed the tables all week long, asking when it would be their class' turn to come eat.  The tables caused a scene, in the best possible way.

Now, two weeks after Husting left our campus, jicama is apparently flying out of the cafeteria.  Kids who normally shunned the salad bar are asking for cauliflower. 

So I tip my hat to Lisa for her creative idea, initiative, and willingness to volunteer so much time.  And I tip my hat, too, to Fresh Choice for conducting this program on its own dime.  It’s not 100 percent altruistic, of course.  The kids received bookmarks, and when they read five books they can exchange the bookmark for a free Fresh Choice meal, so the chain does stand to see an uptick in traffic from our school for its efforts.  This was my hesitation, and why I initially didn't support the plan.  In my head, I didn't want any private business coming to school, talking to the kids, if it stood to gain financially from the interaction.

But our world is not ideal.  It's real.  And I'm glad Lisa had the courage of her convictions, or the school salad bar wouldn't suddenly hold so much interest for our kids.

Once a skeptic, I now hope Fresh Choice returns next year.

Getaway

It may seem that the best way to accomplish tasks and meet deadlines during an intensely stressful time is to simply work harder.  Do more, stay up later, pack more hours into the day.  I've tried this, and it fails.  The surest way to drive yourself fully bananas when you're already three-quarters crazy is to quicken the pace.

Leaving town, just for a night, is a far better solution.  Plus, you'll eat better.

This weekend, we headed down the coast to Big Sur, a place of such breathtaking natural beauty it's impossible to experience anything but wonder.  My shoulders relaxed so far they dragged in the surf.

On the drive down, and thanks to a splendid recommendation from Nani Steele, we stopped at Sweet Elena's for the loveliest olallieberry pie.  We also visited Nepenthe, where we sipped icy lemonade and gawked at the ocean from on high.  We went to Big Sur Bakery & Restaurant not once but twice, the first time to nibble pastries and the second time for a breakfast of huckleberry pancakes, fresh-squeezed juices, vanilla tea lattes, and wood-fired breads.  We watched the boys jump waves at the beach, took a hike in a state park, and did Mad Libs in the fingernail-sized cottage where we spent the night.

If you're the kind of person who keeps lists of places to visit before you croak, you may want to add Big Sur, in bold.

Sunday

For someone like me who spends nearly all my time at my computer or in my kitchen, spending an entire day, from morning till night, in San Francisco with my camera was an indulgent, luxurious slice of wonder.  Many thanks to Penny de los Santos for leading this weekend's food photography workshop; to the fine chefs and owners of Contigo for opening their space to us and for their colorful, inspirational, and outstanding food; to the bakers and diners at Tartine Bakery & Cafe, who proved that one really can eat one's weight in saturated fat and live to tell the tale; and to the residents of San Francisco's Mission District, who permitted a motley group of 25 food enthusiasts, writers, and bloggers to roam their neighborhood, and who showed us great courtesy in the process.

Thanks, too, to Aleta Watson, who so generously served as my compass throughout the day, and to Stephanie Stiavetti, for bringing the workshop to my attention.

Here's a 45 second peek at my 8 hour day.  More photos to come in future posts...

Please enjoy.

Train

There are many reasons to take the train, and getting from one place to another is chief among them.  Also, you don't have to wait in a security line, which is a terrific bonus unless, of course, your fellow trainmates happen to be crazy (more on that in a minute), and then you kind of wish there'd been some kind of metal detector, or at least a crazyometer of some sort, before you boarded with your two young kids.  Also, trains are retro in a pleasing, nostalgic kind of way, and watching your kids watch the scenery is bound to make you love both your children, and the passing hills and valleys, even more than you already do.  So take the train!

Just pack a meal.  And earplugs.

Seriously, and sorry, because I don't want to make any enemies here, and therefore I will write the name of the train I took in backwards-code so the Googlebots trolling the blogosphere won't alert a burly conductor somewhere that I was making fun of the food on Kartma.

But first a recap of the announcements, which were piped into our little car at a deafening volume:

11:30 a.m. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, if you’re holding an 11:30 lunch reservation, please make your way to the dining car at this time.”

11:33 a.m. “Come to the parlor car to get that cheeseburger and Heineken you’ve been thinking about."

11:45 a.m. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, if you’re holding an 11:45 lunch reservation, please make your way to the dining car at this time."

11:47 a.m.  “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we are still waiting for 3 people with 11:45 lunch reservations to show up in the dining car.  If you don’t get here in the next three minutes, we will give your table away.”

11:50 a.m. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, this is your last call for the 11:45 am lunch reservation.  You will not, I repeat, will not be able to eat lunch until last call if you fail to show up for your reservation.”

11:52 a.m.  “In the mood for a Blue Moon beer?  Come to the parlor car to get a cold one.”

Our reservation wasn’t until 1:00pm, so if you extrapolate the frequency of these announcements over time, you’ll get a sense for how many we had to listen to.  But finally 1:00 arrived, and we headed to the dining car.  I nibbled an adequate black bean and corn veggie burger and my kids were served that classic combination of spaghetti, meatballs, and potato chips. I don't remember what Colin ate, which says more about his meal than my memory.

An 80-something man sat at the adjacent table with his 70-something wife.  They shared it with a slightly less ancient couple.  Communal dining means if you travel in parties of fewer than four, you have to share tables, even if the rest of the car is completely empty.

The old man ordered a drink.  “I’ll take a Dewar’s, no ice.  If the bartender reaches for the ice, slap his hand away," he told the waiter.  "I’m serious.  I’m a rich old man and I like my drink the way I like my drink.”  Good times on the train!

The waiter returned with the drinks.  “My wife’ll have the burger.  Bring her some bacon on it.  She loves her bacon though she’d never admit it herself.”  The wife giggled.

Just then a 40-something guy entered the dining car and began to sit at one of the unoccupied tables, of which there were several.  Mind you, the whole dining car was about three feet long, so it's not like waiter would've had to go out of his way to serve him.

"You can't sit there," the waiter barked.  "It's communal dining!"  He motioned to a table with a wide-eyed couple. The new table pretty much touched the table where the man had sat down.

"You don't have to talk to me like that!" the single man barked back, not budging.

"IT'S COMMUNAL DINING!" came the reply.

And then the single man went up to the waiter and pushed his shoulder, and they started going at it like a pair of pit bulls.  (Sorry, pit bull people -- don't get on my case.)  Suffice it to say "security" was called, the man shuffled away, and I was left wishing someone had made both the single guy and the waiter walk through a metal detector before boarding because they were both, obviously, bananas, and who knew what would happen in the ensuing eight hours of this illustrious journey?

At 9pm that night we disembarked in Los Angeles, after hearing the call for dinner about 87 times at 15 minute intervals, along with multiple invitations to come to the parlor car for a Blue Moon beer and some cheese.

I like flying. 

Concierge

I'm the kind of person who likes to ask for help.  If I'm lost, I ask for directions.  If I need a recommendation for a doctor/hairstylist/plumber/contractor, I ask for referrals.  If I'm traveling and want a good meal, I ask people who know the dining scene.  And the concierge at an upscale hotel is, in theory, paid to know the local dining scene.

Last week, while traveling through Southern California with my family, we were tired and wanted to find a restaurant close to the hotel. Colin flipped through the in-room magazine and saw a small write-up of a Korean BBQ place just across the street.  Perfect.  But on our way out the door I do what I often do: second-guess whatever decision my brilliant and thoughtful husband has already made and seek confirmation/approval/advice from a total stranger.

"We're going to the Korean BBQ place across the street," I told the concierge.  "Is it any good?"

"I don't know," she said.  "I've never eaten there.  But other guests have told me they love it!"

"Well," I responded, second-guessing, because that's what I do, "is there another place you have eaten that you're sure would be great for a food-savvy family with two well-behaved kids?  We like good food."

"I think you should drive to the mall," she said brightly.  "They have a California Pizza Kitchen!  And a Cheesecake Factory!"

Of course, we ignored her and went to the Korean place anyway.  While there, I tried bi bim bop for the first time and now dream about it in technicolor. My kids and Colin filled themselves with Korean short ribs and giant prawns grilled right at the table.  We gorged on dumplings, kimchi, rice, soup, and were doted on by two matronly servers who seemed absolutely delighted not only by our presence, but by our spirit of adventure. 

It was a Thursday night, and the place was quiet.  Several tables with Korean families were scattered about the restaurant, but its capacity could have held significantly more.

And I think I know why the restaurant was suffering.  Because the concierges at the major hotels, who are paid to promote the local dining scene, are instead sending their guests to the mall -- to the California Pizza Kitchen, and the Cheesecake Factory, instead of trying the independently-owned restaurants a stone's throw away.

Ridiculous.

Monocle

I've a mind to get all crafty and buy a yard of black felt. I'll use it to fashion majestic top hats for these sunny tangerines, because as soon as I heard they were called W. Murcotts, I pictured the guy on the Monopoly box, and he definitely rocks a tall, black hat. 

But the formal W. Murcott name also conjures, for some reason, an image of Mr. Peanut, with his flirty grin and masculine monocle, so I'll toss in a skein of copper wire, too, to make some eyewear.  After all, there's nothing a tangerine needs more than a top hat and a monocle.

W. Murcotts, which are mandarins, or tangerines, depending on your point of view, are awfully pretty, and super-simple to peel.  They're less ubiquitous than clementines, and their bold, honeyed sweetness delivers more citrusy ka-pow! They're also quite juicy, which is excellent, so long as you've got access to a napkin, a paper towel, or a shammy.  A sham-wow, in particular, would prove handy.

Apparently, and I just discovered this about 3-1/2 seconds ago, W. Murcotts were imported to California from Morocco in 1985, which kind of freaks me out, because I didn't know this before I paired them with chickpeas and couscous.  Now if that doesn't make me a culinary soothsayer...

Don't have W. Murcotts?  Perch your hand-crafted top hats and monocles on any tangerines you find.  The only person who may judge you is Mr. W. Murcott himself, and the chances of him finding you, I'm guessing, are relatively slim, especially as he's probably busy eating peanuts and playing Monopoly.

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Recipe for Tangerine Couscous with garbanzos and olives

Here's a really bright, fruity side dish that would nicely complement grilled chicken or lamb.  Or you can eat like I did, with a toasted piece of old pita bread.

Makes 4-1/2 cups

5 tangerines (I used W. Murcotts)
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1/8 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 cup low-sodium vegetable broth
3/4 cup plain couscous
One 15-ounce can garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed
2 tablespoons minced shallot
1/2 cup slivered, pitted kalamata olives
1/4 cup dry-toasted pine nuts

Squeeze the juice from two of the tangerines into a glass measuring cup or small bowl.  (You'll want about 1/3 cup juice.)  Whisk in the olive oil, salt, and pepper and set aside.

In a small saucepan, bring the vegetable broth to a boil.  Stream in the couscous, cover, and immediately remove from the heat.  Let stand 5 minutes, until the liquid is absorbed.  Fluff couscous with a fork, and scrape into a good-size serving bowl.  While still warm, douse with the dressing and stir well.

Stir in the garbanzos, shallot, olives, and pine nuts.  Peel the remaining tangerines and remove as much of the white pith as possible.  Dice fruit, and add to the serving bowl.  Correct seasonings, and serve warm, at room temperature, or cold.

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Manipulation

Marketing speak makes me crazy.  I'm a cynic (sorry) and never feel more manipulated than when words promise something they then fail to deliver.  I wrote an article a while back for a trade publication about menu consultants whose jobs consist of analyzing, well, menus. They fix not only the layout, so your eyes go to dishes with the highest profit margin, but the language, so patrons feel inspired to spend more money on the same exact food.  Ka-ching!

And as a wordsmith, I understand this, and it doesn't bother me per se.  In fact, I'd love to be a menu re-designer.  I'd be pretty good at it, too.  But the food I'd describe would have to merit the descriptors I'd attach to it.  I wouldn't, for example, use the phrase "heirloom tomato salad" if the tomatoes came from 7-Eleven.  Sadly, this kind of overly liberal menu writing abounds.

I fell prey to it recently when out to lunch with two colleagues.  We had a nice meal at a relatively upscale local restaurant.  The food was good, the prices were within reason, and at the end of the meal, we decided -- against our collective better judgment -- to share a dessert.  (Why do only women share desserts?  Another topic for another time.)

Our eyes all fixed on the same dessert listed on the menu.  It was a Meyer Lemon Tart with a Marzipan Crust.  The lemon tart part did nothing for me, but the word "marzipan" grabbed me by the throat and throttled my taste buds.  Marzipan is a buzzword for me.  There, I said it.  Here's all my money.  You want my kids, too?  Fine, just give me something marzipany.

So we ordered the tart, and what arrived was laughable.  The crust was a standard short dough, and I don't even think it was cooked.  It tasted like raw, refrigerated supermarket pie crust that someone had simply forgotten to bake.  And guess what else?  It had about as much marzipan as my big toe; not a single almond had crossed its path.

I was pissed, but as this was a professional function and I was on my Best Behavior (and wasn't paying the tab), I didn't make a federal case.  My colleagues were disappointed, too.  We'd all been had.

And the annoying part was, some menu designers were probably out on a Caribbean beach sipping fruity cocktails.  They got $9 out of us that day for a pathetic, mediocre dessert.  All because of one, lying, evocative word.  Damn you, marzipan.

I'm going to start selling words.  Then I'll be rich, I tell you. 

Rich.

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Recipe for Meyer Lemon Pistachio Cookies with fleur de sel hand-harvested from Île de Ré

You think I'm kidding, but I'm not.  Everything in that recipe title is 100 percent true, and I will therefore charge you $25 for 3 of these cookies.  Got to pay the bills, Man.  Of course, for you?  The recipe is free. 

Makes 30 to 35 cookies

4 ounces pistachios
1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon cardamom
Pinch salt
2 sticks (8 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup minus 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1/4 cup lemon zest (preferably from Meyer lemons -- about 3)
2 egg yolks
Fleur de sel, or coarse sea salt of choice, for finishing

Toast the pistachios in a preheated 350 degree oven for 8 to 10 minutes until crisp and browned.  Cool completely.  Grind until not-quite-powdery in a food processor.  You should have about a cup.  In a medium bowl, whisk with the flour, cardamom and salt.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the butter, sugar, and lemon zest  until light and fluffy, about three minutes on high speed.  Beat in yolks.  Turn off mixer, dump in flour mixture, then beat on low speed for just a few seconds, or until the dry ingredients are absorbed.  Refrigerate dough for one hour.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.  Line baking sheets with parchment or Silpats.

Use a 1-1/2-inch scoop to portion out the dough, placing 12 to a sheet.  Sprinkle each dough mound very lightly with coarse salt.  Bake for 13 to 15 minutes, reversing the position of the baking pans halfway through bake time.  Cookies are done when the centers are set and the edges are nicely browned.

Cool on a rack, and store airtight.

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Nepenthe

So let's say you made the beans.  Here's what you're going to do with them.

Behold my little tweak on Romney Steele's minestrone recipe.  From her breathtaking new book My Nepenthe (Andrews McMeel Publishing, 2009), this recipe has everything I love in a soup: hearty, filling protein from the beans, vibrant color from the vegetables, and cute little shapes of tender pasta. If it weren't so hot in the soup pot, I might dive in and swim around. 

Remember a few months ago when I wrote a post called Thread?  About how you never know which professional opportunities will pay off, so you should pretty much say yes to every invitation?  Well, someone should beat me with a rutabaga because I recently ignored my own advice.

I'd met Romney (aka "Nani") at the BlogHer Food conference for about a minute and a half.  I don't think we did much more than smile and shake hands, and when I heard she'd just written a book called My Nepenthe my eyes glazed over.  I'd heard of My Antonia, but My Nepenthe might as well have been called My Refrigerator Magnet for all the interest it piqued in me.  I had no idea what it meant, so I flitted on.

Bad move #1.

It turns out that people in the Bay Area do know what Nepenthe means.  It refers to a Big Sur restaurant on the California coast that sports breathtaking views, has a rich and illustrious 60 year history, and has served as the cultural gathering place for artists, writers, dancers, and bohemians of all stripes. 

Nani's grandparents, who built the restaurant, originally bought the land from Rita Hayworth.

Orson Welles had bought it for Rita.  You see where I'm going?

I did not know this.

So right after BlogHer Food when my friend Sarah invited me to Nani's book release party, at Nepenthe, I think I said something eloquent like, "Sorry, I can't because of [blah and blah and blah.]"  After all, why go to a book launch for a woman I'd hardly met at a place I'd never heard of?

Bad move #2.

A few weeks later, after I dissed the launch, I got the book.  (Thanks to Dianne for encouraging me to get a copy.)

My Nepenthe is stunning, unique, and absolutely captivating.  Not just the lovely writing about Nani's grandparents and large, extended family, not just the rich history of this unusual locale. The physical pages of this book leap to life with the most glorious splashes of color and texture.  In addition to being a writer and cook, Nani is a food stylist, and her aesthetic completely drew me in.  The photographs capture the bohemian lifestyle, with beatific looking women with long hair and flowing skirts; architectural details like heavy-hinged wooden doors and rustic cobblestone walls; and children playing together, then and now.  It's a portrait of a real family over time, in a place of glorious natural beauty.

(Click here to see sample pages from the book.)

It's not that I want to be a part of Nani's family; it's far too late for that.  But since I got the book I've wanted nothing more than to jump in my car and hightail it down to Nepenthe.

I so completely blew my opportunity that first time around. 

I completely blew it.

...

Recipe for Vegetable-Packed Minestrone

Adapted from My Nepenthe by Romney Steele (Andrews McMeel, 2009)

I made a few tweaks to Nani's original Day at the Beach Minestrone recipe, subbing yellow eye beans for the cannellinis, a Japanese sweet potato for the regular potato, green beans for the zucchini, and a whole bunch of lacinato kale for the chard. 

Keep in mind that minestrone is endlessly versatile.  Use whatever vegetables you like, whatever variety of dried or canned beans you have on hand, and your favorite style of little pasta. 

Serves 8

1 cup small white beans, yellow eye beans, or other beans of your choice, or, alternately, one 15-ounce can white beans, drained and rinsed
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 carrots, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
2 sprigs thyme, stemmed
1 Japanese sweet potato, or potato of your choice, peeled and diced
2 plum tomatoes, OR half a 14.5 ounce can whole plum tomatoes with some juice, OR 10 ounces garlicky-roasted summer tomatoes if you have any in your freezer
One 32-ounce carton vegetable stock
3 cups cold water, divided
4 ounces green beans, halved on the diagonal
1/2 cup dried small pasta (shells, little bow ties, orzo)
Handful of lacinato (also called "dinosaur") kale, stems and thick ribs discarded, leaves sliced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Crushed red pepper, shredded Parmesan cheese, and/or olive oil, for serving

If using dried beans, soak overnight in cold water.  Drain, rinse, and fill pot with beans.  Cover with cold water by 2 inches, and bring to a boil.  Lower heat slightly and boil beans gently until tender.  (This will take between 25 minutes and an hour, depending on what type of beans you use and how fresh they are.)  Drain and rinse.  Set aside.

In a large soup pot, heat olive oil over medium heat.  Add onions and sauté until translucent, about 5 minutes.  Add celery, carrots, garlic, and thyme, and sauté, stirring occasionally, for 3 minutes.  Stir in the sweet (or regular) potato, tomatoes (break them up if whole), vegetable broth, and water.

Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and simmer gently for about 25 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender but not mushy.  Add the green beans, dried pasta, reserved cooked (or canned) beans, kale, and an additional cup of water, if necessary.  Simmer until pasta and vegetables are tender and greens are wilted, about 10 to 15 minutes.  Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Ladle into soup bowls and garnish with Parmesan cheese and additional olive oil, if desired.  Pass crushed red pepper alongside.

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