Beef barley soup for the Olympics

When I was a kid, I took ice skating lessons at a local rink called The Winter Lodge.  I started when I was four, in the baby class, which was offered in a small, indoor rink the size of a classroom. The main purpose of the beginner class was to learn to move from one side of the room to the other without falling on your face. Over the next seven years, I skated through the different levels onto the big outdoor rink and eventually became a pretty good skater, although not competition material.

Mostly, I liked the trappings of the skating world: the pretty white skates and sparkly outfits, as well as the weird chicken soup you could buy for 25 cents from The Winter Lodge's ancient vending machine. I was also completely obsessed with the movie Ice Castles, which came out in 1978, when I was five. It's about a beautiful blond figure skater named Lexie, who, in a tragic accident, loses her sight, and then has to learn to skate all over again, but blind. Why I was watching movies like this when I was five is beyond me, but it probably helps explain why I'm a little mental as an adult.

Looking back, I suspect this movie was a big piece of garbage. But when I was little, I liked to pretend I was Lexie (pre-accident, natch), skating around to a fabulous soundtrack, my long ponytail flowing behind me as the crowds roared.

What does this have to do with food? you're wondering. Well, one of my favorite things to eat when I came home from ice skating was my mom's beef barley soup.

This weekend I got the craving for it, I think because of the Olympics. Watching the skating had me thinking about the old Winter Lodge and coming home after practice to a warm bowl of delicious soup. I had to settle for a different recipe than my mother's, though, since hers takes the better part of a day, and I didn't decide on making the soup until about 4 pm. Luckily, that old cookbook I love, Firehouse Food, came through for me yet again.

The soup was rich and meaty, full of vegetables, and thickened from the barley. We ate it with big slices of good sourdough bread while watching the Olympics, and I recommend you do the same.

Beef barley soup
From Firehouse Food

Serves 6

2 T. olive or vegetable oil 
1 lb. London broil or beef chuck, cut into 1/2" cubes (I used 1-1/2 lbs)
salt and pepper
1 small onion, small dice
3 stalks celery, small dice
1 large carrot, small dice
1/4 c. chopped parsley, plus 1 T. for garnish
6 c. beef broth
1 c. pearl barley
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes
1 T. Worcestershire sauce
3 bay leaves
1/2 t. dried thyme

In a large, heavy-bottomed soup pot, heat the oil and brown the beef in small batches, seasoning each batch with salt and pepper. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the browned meat to a bowl, leaving as much fat in the pot as possible.

Once all the meat has been browned and removed, add the onion, celery, carrot, and parsley to the pot; cover and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally for about 5 minutes, until the vegetables are soft.

Return the beef to the pot along with any juices that have collected in the bowl. Add the broth, barley, tomatoes (with their liquid), Worcestershire sauce, bay leaves, and thyme. Bring the soup to a boil, then lower the heat, put the cover ajar, and simmer 1-1/2 hours, stirring occasionally and adding water if the soup becomes too thick.

Skim any fat that has risen to the surface of the soup, discard the bay leaves, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Ladle into bowls and garnish with the remaining parsley.

Welcome home French toast

The husband returned yesterday from his trip to Los Angeles. After four days of being on our own, Frances and I welcomed him cheerily back to the den, plying him with cold beer and chocolate chip cookies when he arrived so that he knew how happy we were to see him. He seemed pleased with these offerings, and in turn pulled out a compilation of mystery stories, Los Angeles Noir, that he'd picked up for me at my favorite book store, Book Soup, in Hollywood. In no time at all we were settled in the living room and he filled me in on his trip, which had been very successful indeed.

This morning, we had our typical Sunday morning: Peets coffee and The New York Times. Sometimes on the weekend I bake something for breakfast, like popovers, scones, or muffins, or the occasional crumb cake; today I decided to make French toast. We had leftover sourdough bread from last night's dinner which I thought would work nicely.

The funny thing is, I've never made French toast. But I felt confident I could do it. I mean, fried bread, right? What's so hard about that?

While the griddle heated up, I poured some milk, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a bowl and was about to crack an egg in it when the husband intervened.

"Don't do that," he said.

"What?"

"You have way too much milk in there. Hand it to me," he said.

All of a sudden I'm married to Jacques Pepin?

But I was won over by his confidence. And truthfully, I had no idea whether or not he was right. So I watched as he poured out about three quarters of the milk. Wordlessly, he handed back the bowl.

I just stared at him.

"Now you can crack the eggs," he said approvingly.

I was able to take it from there. Good thing, too. The husband is responsible for handling all things car, computer, cable, stereo, and bicycle-related, stubborn jar lids, minor plumbing and electrical repairs, and anything that requires reaching a high shelf. I only have one skill to contribute to the family, which is cooking. Clearly, I need to step up my game before I'm rendered totally useless. Thinking about his French toast savvy, I wondered what else he knows that he hasn't revealed. Am I going to return home one day to find him making puff pastry from scratch?

The main thing to note, though, is that the French toast was delicious, smothered in maple syrup with fresh blueberries, with perfectly crisp bacon on the side. A good welcome home breakfast for sure.

Flying solo

The husband is traveling on business this week, leaving me to my own devices. Cooking isn't quite as interesting for one person, it turns out. So I've been eating strange dinners.

The first night, I ate some leftover roast chicken, along with the last piece of Paradise Pizza from over the weekend, and a scruffy little salad made up of some borderline butter lettuce and a questionable carrot. What's up with that?

Then, last night, I made chicken salad. Now you know I love chicken salad, but it's generally more of a lunch thing for me. But last night I mixed it up and put it on toast. Unfortunately, the bread fell apart and so I chucked the toast altogether and just dumped the salad in a bowl and ate it like that. With some tortilla chips on the side. And two glasses of wine. And my last Valentine chocolate.

I also have to mention that on top of missing the husband, work has been crummy this week. I try to keep work out of this blog because who wants to read about someone else's job? But, today was a little traumatic. The place I work is going to undergo some major changes immediately and my job may not remain intact. Even if it remains intact, I'm not sure I'd want to work there anymore.

So, while still technically employed for the short-term, I need to find a new job ASAP.

On the one hand, it's not good to have to look for another job. I've only been there a year and a half, and I wasn't planning on leaving yet.

On the other hand, it might be time for a change. Maybe a new career, and possibly a new place. I think the three of us would be very happy in Los Angeles. I'm picturing a little bungalow in Venice Beach or a garden apartment in Santa Monica. I wouldn't mind trading the hills and fog for flat streets and year-round sunshine, at least for awhile.

I ran the idea by Frances as I put my dinner together tonight. She seemed to be listening intently to every word, or maybe she was just staring at my piece of fish.

Pan-roasted salmon with arugula, radish, and mango salad. Doesn't that look sunny?

Making dinner put me in a slightly better mood. I put on some music while I cooked and shared some mango with Frances, who found it to her liking. Instead of feeling bad, I started to feel a little bit excited.  I wonder what the future will hold.