In hot pursuit of arugula

Food is on my mind again. It’s the season for it. The pace of restaurant kitchens seems cool right now. Why did I completely let go of that world? When you’re prepping, nothing, nothing is as important as getting the flatleaf parsley exactly to the consistency you’re after. How many of us have the luxury of worrying about the size and texture of shredded parsley for a solid block of time each day?

I read in the news about L’Etoile (our infamous eating place that pays homage to the small, organic farmer), and about Charlie Trotter opening a place in New York and my mind wanders to plates piled high with artistically presented food. I’m inspired. I want to cook again.

The starting point: what should be the dish that draws you in so that you can’t wait for the next one and the next? Something zesty and totally spring-focused. Something that’ll bite at your tongue but wont quite leave you in pain. Arugula! How about creating an arugula frappuccino? Seems perfect, no? A frothy little mixture, warm, served in a cappuccino cup. Add a few other green vegetables to the base to tone down the pepperiness of arugula (onion? sweet spinach? zucchini?) and you’ve got yourself a hot start to a dreamy meal.

Except,

...there’s no arugula to be had in Madison. Whole Foods tells me they’ve been begging their California suppliers, with no luck. Copps doesn’t have it. [You might say that these days Copps is losing its produce advantage. Where are those bins of fresh baby lettuce (and arugula)? What happened to the organic fruit section? There is, according to me, currently no good reason at all to set foot in that store.] Magic Mill? So laid back, so sweet, so barren -- at least in terms of arugula.

At this point I am ready to call friends in far away places. I am possessed by an arugula craving. Nothing, no other green soup will do. Arugula or bust!

But reality forces me to acknowledge the shortcomings of living in a state with weather that is in a symbiotic relationship with the Siberian tundra. Or so it seems.

I’m tired of winter.

I drive to Brennan’s to pick up some fruit for the morning – I am not a Brennan’s fan especially, but minute for minute, it is the closest grocery store to my house and so once or twice a year I go there.

I get out, am reminded by the clerk that the place closes in five minutes, I throw him a dirty look -- as in, how dare you hurry me just so you can go home to your wife and kids on a Sunday evening!?? I look listlessly at the berries, walk around to the cashier and pass a stack of beautiful, fresh arugula.