Curry Cauliflower Soup

This weekend I did a little experimenting in the kitchen. I had a few bags of frozen cauliflower, some vegetable odds and ends in the fridge and the dregs of a jar of hot curry paste. And that is how curry cauliflower soup came into existence.

Now, I realize that based on the above description, you likely think this soup sounds disgusting. I mean, I did use the terms “odds and ends” and “dregs” in the previous paragraph. Thus I present to you evidence to the contrary:

Curry Cauliflower Soup

Curry Cauliflower Soup

Convinced yet? If not, I assure you it is tasty, and Roger will confirm this fact. Just check out his tweets. He even called himself a lucky guy.

So without further ado…

Ingredients

  • 2 bags of frozen cauliflower, thawed and diced
  • 1 large onion, diced
  • 1 green and 1 red bell pepper, diced
  • 2 large carrots, peeled and diced
  • 1 large sweet potato, cut up in a large dice
  • 2 or 3 cloves of garlic, finely diced
  • 1 cup of peas
  • 1 regular (14.5 oz) can of diced tomatoes
  • 3 tablespoons of curry paste
  • 2 tablespoons of cumin powder
  • 1 tablespoon of turmeric powder
  • 2 bouillon cubes (I use Knorr Vegetable Bouillon)
  • Salt and black pepper to taste

Directions

  1. Heat up 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil in a large pot ( I used my trusty 9.5 qt Le Creuset French Oven) on high heat.
  2. Saute the onions, carrots and red and green bell pepper until translucent and starting to brown.
  3. Add the garlic and mix it well so it is well incorporated with the rest of the vegetables.
  4. Add the cauliflower and saute for about 3-5 minutes more until the cauliflower starts to brown a little.
  5. Add the tomato, bouillon, curry paste and 10-12 cups of water.
  6. Add the sweet potato and peas.
  7. Add the cumin and turmeric and stir really well.
  8. Once the soup comes to a boil, taste the broth and add salt and pepper to taste. Then reduce the heat to medium-high and simmer for about 30-45 minutes or until the sweet potatoes are good and soft.

Serving Suggestions:

I think this soup would be delicious drizzled with a little coconut milk. Also, you might try serving over a scoop of basmati rice. Finally, I always find curry soups benefit quite a bit from a sprinkling of fried shallots.  Enjoy.

Countdown to BlogHer ’10

As you may have noticed, I made some changes to the header, the background, and some other minor details. Thanks to the honest and savvy feedback from Bonnie, which pushed me to think a little less literally about the header images.

Also, business cards have finally been ordered. I’ll admit I procrastinated a bit, but in fairness to myself, I knew I could pull them together in a few minutes and I’ve had a design in mind for a few months. Every once in a while my design degrees come in handy.

businesscard

Note the new email address. Feel free to use it.

The Hugging Bully

I like science fiction. This means I watch a lot of shows and movies on channels that are largely geared towards men. Thus, I see a lot of Viagra, Cialis, WWF and Ultimate Fighting Champions commercials. Have you seen this ultimate fighting business? It’s grown men acting like animals in a cage sort of thing. I only know this from commercials, so I can’t really describe this sport or whatever you call it with any authority. What I can say with authority is that someone needs to get some toddlers in that ring.

Seriously. Toddlers can kick some ass. They will walk up to a perfect stranger and kick them in the shins or punch them where it counts. They are no joke. And Azita is definitely a toddler. She kicks. She hits. She pulls hair. She scratches. The other day she tried to gouge my eyes out while she tackled me on the couch. All this with a pacifier in her mouth and a sweet expression on her face. What makes a toddler so dangerous is that they are so damn cute, you really never expect what’s coming.

Of course I don’t want Azita to grow up to be a violent jerk, so after reading the words of a few experts on the subject I came up with a strategy. I counter every act of violence with an act of love. If Azita head butts my face, I tell her it’s bad and ask her to give a kiss on the cheek. She scratches my arm, I ask her to pat my hand. She hits me in the gut, I ask for a hug. It’s all very simple. I’m trying to show her the nice way to physically interact with others. There’s also the added benefit that I get lots of hugs and smooches from my most favorite little girl in the world.

This afternoon when we picked Azita up from daycare, as I chatted with her caregivers, Azita walked over to her buddy Henry and hit him. I was kind of horrified. “Azita! No! We don’t hit!,” I said. Then Miss G, her favorite caregiver, said “Azita, go tell Henry you’re sorry.” Azita promptly walked over to Henry and gave him a big hug. It was at this point I noticed that Miss G had a big grin on her face. Apparently our sweet little toddler likes to play rough with the other kids then apologize with a hug or a kiss. “Azita is always hugging everybody,” says Miss G.

“Great!,” said Roger, as I recounted this to him in the car. “We’re going to be the parents of the only bully who gives her victims hugs after she punches them.”

Grrrrrrrrrr

Grrrrrrrrrr

Dress-Up

Proof of Azita’s love of accessories…

Azita_dressUp1

Trying on Heels




Deciding to Stick to Flats

Deciding to Stick to Flats




Discovering Baba's Side of the Closet

Discovering Baba's Side of the Closet



The Right Shade of Green

A few weekends ago I was browsing the produce section of our local grocery store with Azita on board, snuggling close to me in her sling. As I walked through the aisles, I did the mom thing that annoys everyone who isn’t a parent — I pointed out every fruit and vegetable and told her the name, described the shape and color and basically tried to turn this chore into a teaching moment. As she tends to do, Azita smiled and made googly eyes at just about everyone who passed by. This is probably why it no longer surprises me when I notice people staring when I walk about town with her. She is staring at everyone else after all. After a while though I noticed the produce manager staring for a really long time, so I turned my attention and looked him in the eyes. And there I saw something unmistakable.

He had the look. The look of a parent at work, missing their child and seeing their baby in just about any child they see. I knew this even before he spoke up to talk about his 4 month old daughter at home. I know this look well, because I can feel myself giving it to parents I see whenever I venture outside of my office during the day.

I participate in a lot of parenting discussion boards, and one of the topics that seems to crop up frequently is the full-time mother vs. working-out-of-the-home mother struggle. We all struggle with it in different ways. Fathers do also, but maybe it’s the fact that our children are physically a part of us for 10 months that makes the struggle so much more of a struggle for mothers. No matter what situation you’re in, it’s hard to not feel guilt and longing.

I can understand every point of view, but maybe it’s my desire to stay home with Azita that clouds my thinking a little on the topic. I once read a post written by a full-time mother who stated that she felt like a loser when she sat at Starbucks with her children on a weekday, watching all the women in their suits, carrying their briefcases, rushing to get a coffee on their way to a glamorous day at the office — all this while she  sat at a table in her yoga pants and hoodie, trying to get her children to drink their milk and eat just a little bit of a muffin.

I’ve been the woman at Starbucks. The one rushing to get to an office. If I had more time before work, I would be that woman more often. And, as I read that mother’s post, the glimpse she provided into her innermost thoughts, I was actually kind of shocked. I was shocked, because when I see a mother at Starbucks with her children in the middle of a workday I envy her. I look at her the way the grocer looked at me and Azita, browsing for produce. The word “loser” never even crosses my mind. The word “lucky” does.

It kind of puts things in perspective sometimes to remember this. To remember that no matter what your position in life, there is almost always someone looking at you from the outside thinking your grass is greener. And, maybe remembering this will even remind you just how green your grass is, even if it isn’t the shade you want.

Worried Man

It is my job — my singular task in this world now — to provide my child with food, shelter, safety and unconditional love. To give her all that is necessary to survive and thrive in this world. So when I woke up at 3:37 am a few nights ago — covered in sweat, with a raging headache and a cold, cold fear in my heart — I wasn’t about to ignore the cause of my concern.

What would I do if my daughter liked the Stones more than The Beatles?

I’ve struggled with this question for nearly a week. It weighs heavy on my mind.

And it’s a choice she will have to make  on her own. I cannot help. When she is of the right age — I’d say around 8, maybe 7 (she’s shown signs of advanced musical tastes) — she will stop her iPod, take off her headphones and look over at me. “Baba, Aren’t the Stones just a really good cover band?”

“Yes they are princess. Yes they are. Now go get Rubber Soul from the top shelf in the library so we can hear how it was intended to be heard.”

Researching Fatherhood

We took Azita to the University of Maryland on Thursday to take part in a study on language development. As a seven-month-old girl, her language hasn’t so much developed as shown promise for one day developing soon. But this a long-term study, so we went today to get the first one on the books.

I was more than a little excited about being “studied” as a parent. I was looking forward to seeing how my daughter reacted to words and researchers and a college campus. These are all things I really love. I wanted to be  a part of a university research project. I wanted to be “Subject B-13″ or whatever they label subjects in these sorts of things.

It just wasn’t meant to be, and my dreams of being a footnote in a groundbreaking study on how humans learn to use the spoken word to communicate were crushed because most dads suck.

Yeah, I said it. Most dads suck, and I’ll tell you why most dads suck: Because there are never enough dads willing to participate in university research, so they only test children with moms. Allowing me to participate in the study would have introduced a new element, and damaged the research. I respect this so I didn’t complain to the researchers, but man I was hurt. Not because I took a half day off work, but because so many other dads didn’t. What the hell? A few hours off so our communication with our daughters and sons can help research.

When we returned from our adventure in College Park, I couldn’t stop talking to Azita. If I had a tripod I would have recorded me playing with her and emailed it to the research department — just in case any other dads decide not to suck so much.

What is Khoresht anyways?

I think the question most people will have if they stumble across this blog is “What the hell is catfish?” Kidding, obviously.

Many places in the United States can now boast diverse culinary offerings, from more ubiquitous Mexican cuisine to perhaps the less common Ethiopian or Malaysian. Iranian cuisine falls pretty squarely on the less common side of things. While common in the D.C. area, where I have resided my entire life, and in much of California, not many American cities have an Iranian restaurant. So, I assume that most people haven’t heard of khoresht.

There are two primary mainstays in the Iranian diet — rice and khoresht. What is khoresht? If I had to compare it to something more well-known it would be to an Indian curry or a slightly more soupy Thai or Chinese stir-fry. It’s basically a thick stew that is served over rice. There is a khoresht for every palate — from Khoresht-e Bademjan (an eggplant and tomato stew) to Khoresht-e Fesenjan (a chicken stewed in ground walnuts and pomegranate syrup). If you haven’t tried khoresht, I highly recommend it. They are worth their preparation time for sure.  Check out the lovely My Persian Kitchen for some great, authentic recipes for khoresht and other yummy Persian delights.

Running Man

I spent just about a year nursing a knee injury. I couldn’t play soccer. I couldn’t roll around on the floor with my nephews for more than 20 minutes at a time without cringing in pain. And I couldn’t run. It sucked. I had no idea how addicted I was to (slowly) propelling myself forward — cutting through the air as my shoes pounded concrete, pavement, bricks, dirt and puddles of mud water.

Z and I had trained for and ran the Marine Corps Marathon two years ago. And here I was limping around and trying not to feel too self-conscious about spending so much time on the elliptical machine. So I avoided the gym. Made excuses not to workout. I gained 20 pounds. Z was seven months pregnant and I was just fat. My clothes were snug or just didn’t fit at all. It was worse than not being able to run. As much as I love to run, I love looking good in good-looking clothes. I was forced to wear khakis and a polo shirt to work. I looked like, dare I say, the average guy. It sucked big time.

But now, four weeks into running between 12-15 miles each week. Slowly working my body back into some shape other than an over-ripe pear. Steadily running faster (from 14 min. miles a month ago to 11:30 min miles tonight). I am feeling better and better about the chance that one day I will walk over to that closet, open those doors and grab that Thomas Pink shirt and not think twice about my love handles.

Monday Morning Blues

Azita was crying when I left her at daycare this morning. I know I’m lucky. This is not a usual occurrence. In fact, she usually smiles and coos and giggles at the sight of her main caretaker (hereafter referred to as Miss Poppins). I always leave her there knowing that I am leaving her in the hands of people she loves, and who dote on her. This morning would have been no exception, except that the advent of crawling has turned Azita into a perpetual motion machine. And, beware her wrath if you try to stop her. Miss Poppins had to stop her this morning, at least until a soft, clean crawling surface was put down. I know that the crying was probably a short-lived thing — when I looked in the window on my way out, she was already smiling and babbling at some of the other kids — but I couldn’t help feeling the same way I felt on that first day I dropped her off at daycare. I remember that day acutely. I refer to it often as “the worst day of my life.” I don’t think I’m being overly dramatic either.

On that day many friends plied me with words intended to comfort: “Don’t worry. In a couple weeks, you’ll be looking forward to Mondays.” Well, it’s 5 months later, and I think I can definitively say that I will never look forward to Mondays. Nor, I’ve decided, do I want to.