run far. view tulips.

This past weekend was really lovely. On Saturday, I ran twenty-five kilometers with thousands of people through the streets of Grand Rapids and along its riverbank. That fellow of mine ran a slightly shorter distance, but I'm very proud of him nonetheless, because he's awfully fast, and, well, I love him (see below).

The race left me with the sorest legs post-race that I've yet experienced, a very black-and-blue toe (nothing new there) and, for several days, a pitifully slow stair-climbing pace. But once again, it was worth it.

Saturday afternoon, because I thought we ought to pack more activity into a day that began with many-mile-long races, we went to Holland, where we saw tulips in abundance.

They were beautiful.

Life is grand.

And this coming weekend, for the first time since late February, I will not be going on a ten-to-fifteen mile run! Oh, the simple pleasures.

May these spring days, my friends, be full of simple pleasures and the things that bring you joy, whatever those things may be--long runs (or short runs) and tulips and people you love, perhaps, or evening walks on warm spring nights and family and good food and laughter.

I hope that today, from your vantage point, life seems quite grand indeed.

easter part two: sunday comes

During a very long run on Good Friday under drizzling, gray skies, I listened to a sermon preached the Sunday before, the last in the Lenten series of a nearby church. The pastor, in his prayer before the sermon, noted the dark days before Easter and the celebration of that bright day that follows. He prayed, "As we enter into a Friday that leads to a Sunday, we ask you to give us that hope that whatever that Friday looks like, Sunday's coming."

For not the first time, a sermon by this particular fellow had me nearly had me in tears as I rounded Reed's Lake in my well-worn running shoes. As I ran under actual dark skies, my thoughts muddled and my heart weary, the parallels couldn't have been much clearer.

And as much as it never feels true during the dark days, he is right: Sunday comes; it always does.

But those dark days can be so hard. I struggle to get through them with hope still intact that Sunday is on its way.

In these two years since graduating from college, as I've begun my life out in the great big world, if I have learned anything, it is that life is hard. There are dark days, and lonely days and sad days and confusing days and days that are just plain hard. Life entails difficult decisions and reasons to cry and hurting people and a broken world.

But. In addition to being hard, life is also good. It is full of hope and promise.

Sunday always comes.

And so it did that weekend. Following the Good Friday of that wet and dreary run, Easter Sunday came with warmth and sunshine, the physical reminder of Resurrection. Ben and I enjoyed a lovely day with his family, and his sister's twin daughters--two very small people full of simple joy, with yet-unknown-but-surely-beautiful futures ahead of them--further reminded me that there is much for us to hope for.

In my life at present, I'm still rather stuck in the middle of a Friday, waiting for a Sunday. The rain comes and goes, and sometimes blue skies peak through the clouds. Yet a haze covers most of my future, and sometimes I lack even the smallest degree of clarity. But that's okay. I am still happy, and I am hopeful. The sunshine and the answers and the next pages in my story will come.

And for you also, whatever you may be experiencing, I know that those things will come.

There is hope. Sunday is coming. Christ is risen.

So whether you are celebrating a bright Sunday morning or waiting in the dark, I offer you this salad, which is full of brightness and tastes of springtime. This was my contribution to our celebratory meal on Easter Sunday, and, if I may say so, it's quite wonderful. The recipe below provides loose guidelines and makes an enormous amount of salad, so use what you have or can get your hands on, make as much or as little as you'd like, improvise as you see fit and enjoy with people you love.

Spring Sunday Salad
Adapted from Heidi Swanson at 101 Cookbooks

For the salad:
3-6 cups cooked wheat berries (or substitute farro, which to my dismay I never can find, or pearled barley or even rice)
2 cups cooked yellow split peas
1 1/2 cups green peas, fresh if it happens to be the right season, frozen if not
4 large handfuls of mixed salad greens
1-2 cups baby tomatoes
1/4 cup feta cheese, crumbled

For the Citrus Parmesan Vinaigrette:
1 orange
1 shallot, chopped
1/3 cup Parmesan cheese
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar or lemon juice
1/2 cup olive oil
salt and pepper

To cook the wheat berries, in a large saucepan, combine 2-4 cups of wheat berries with water to cover by at least an inch and a large pinch of salt. Bring to a boil and then lower heat; cover and simmer until the wheat berries are plump and chewy, about an hour. Drain and set aside.

To cook the yellow split peas, place 3 cups of water in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Add 3/4 cup of dried yellow split peas and simmer until the peas are tender, 20-30 minutes. Drain, salt and set aside.

To prepare the green peas, boil briefly in salted water. Drain and set aside.

To prepare the tomatoes, douse generously with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and roast in the oven at 350 F until wrinkled and beginning to caramelize.

To make the dressing, whisk the zest and juice of the orange with the chopped shallot, Parmesan cheese, vinegar or lemon juice and olive oil. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Finally, assemble the salad! In a large bowl, toss the wheat berries, yellow split peas and green peas with a few spoonfuls of the Citrus Parmesan Vinaigrette until everything is thinly and evenly coated. Add the greens and tomatoes; toss gently. Add salt and more dressing if necessary, toss one last time, place in a pretty bowl or on a pretty platter and top with the feta cheese.

Then, enjoy, my friends--Sunday's coming!

Serves eight or more.

easter part one: tradition, food and family

Part one of my Easter celebration occurred a week early, on Palm Sunday weekend, when Ben and I visited Midland to celebrate with my parents. We made the traditional croissants and a lovely savory tart--now an official tradition as well, I imagine, as it's in its second year (this is the vegetarian substitute for the ham of my childhood, and let me note that my omnivorous parents welcomed the switch and suggested this year's repeat...either it's that fabulous or they love me that much. Perhaps both.)

We are big on food traditions in my family, a fact I am only now beginning to realize. Along with recognizing the reason for the holiday itself, our celebrations primarily involve (1) good conversation and (2) food.

When I read food writers I admire, I sometimes think that I just don't fit the mold: I love food; I think about it all the time and wrap stories around meals in my mind. But I don't have a background characterized by the interweaving of cultural heritages, my mother's family is not Italian with a signature red sauce for proof and my father didn't have any kind of culinary identification with a place so romantic as Paris.

But my parents are both excellent cooks. My childhood was marked by my mother's muffins, loaves of honey-wheat bread, macaroni and cheese, strawberry freezer jam and summer fruit crisps, all from scratch. Her incredible birthday cakes reflected my interest of the moment, be it Minnie Mouse, butterflies or basketball.

In our household, refried beans were made from scratch, though I don't think I realized that the alternative to the beans simmering on the stovetop was encased in a can. My dad specializes in Mexican food and throws down a fabulous pizza. Though more a cook than a baker, he makes an oatmeal bar layered with chocolate that is absolutely divine.

As I was growing up, we ate dinner together, at home, nearly every night. My sister and I delighted even in simple foods, like crackers topped with cheese melted under the broiler. (And I had no idea how blissfully inexpensive the meal was for our young parents.)

My mom occasionally threw tea parties for us. We wore hats, and she made scones with clotted cream and cucumber sandwiches. I loved the perfect lines of the sugar cubes stacked in their tiny white bowl, and we sipped our tea from the beautiful and fragile teacups of my grandmother's collection.

On our birthdays, we got to choose the menu for dinner (my longest-running choice was my mother's famed chicken and broccoli casserole accompanied by homemade rolls), and each holiday was associated with particular meals and desserts. Unconsciously, I spun these traditions together in my mind. My dad made fudge and party mix only at Christmas and cracked hazelnuts with us for his family's signature holiday cookie; my mom took charge of the intricate Santa cookies and the spritz and the Christmas morning cinnamon roll wreath. On Valentine's Day, she made heart-shaped sugar cookies, decorating them for our school parties with designs in pink and white and light purple frosting. We froze red Kool-Aid to make heart-shaped ice cubes and dropped them in Sprite.

Springtime brought thumbprint cookies with frosting in pale shades of yellow, pink and green. And on Easter, we ate ham with canned cherries atop, twice-baked potatoes, homemade croissants with jam and a bunny-shaped carrot cake for dessert. My sister's blog confirms that both offspring of this family still equate thumbprint cookies, those buttery croissants, asparagus and carrot cake topped with cream cheese frosting with the celebration of springtime and Easter.

In my love of stories, I sometimes miss or discredit my own. And perhaps we have to be adults to truly reflect the influence of our pasts; we have to live long enough to see the story begin to unfold. But these days, as I make my own choices and actually pay attention to them, I am realizing that a significant part of what defines my sense of family, tradition and celebration is food, and this isn't something new to this season of my life. Instead, it's woven throughout my past, just as it is for the aforementioned writers I admire.

I found peace in the food traditions that remained constant for our displaced celebration of Easter. And there is something deep that these food traditions communicate--that you celebrate, because life is hard, and celebration helps; that there are things we can rely on, like food and like family; that food not only sustains us but also, blessedly, can be enjoyed communally, in celebration, with the people we love.

And all of this, as it turns out, I learned from my family as well.

recuerdos de denia (memories of denia)

I recently wrote a contribution to a book of memories commemorating the twenty-eight years that students from my alma mater--myself included--studied in the sweet and lovely city of Denia, Spain. The program will be moving from that eastern point of Valencia's coast to Oviedo, and I'm certain the new location will be wonderful, though much colder, and without the people and fallas and streets of Denia that I loved.

I have about a million things that I could say about that beautiful, deep, full semester of my life, the spring of 2007 when I was a sophomore in college, wide-eyed and ready to embrace the world, but for today, I'll just share the reflection I wrote for the book.

Oh Denia. Was it really so long ago?

All of my lovely neighbors

María, me and Maite

Cuando considero mi semestre en Denia, la primera cosa que viene a mi mente es la gente: mi querida mamá española, la hermosa Maite; su amiga María; mis vecinos; los amigos que conocí en la iglesia; mis profesores. Es verdad que hay un mar increíble, calles bonitas, un gran castillo y el formidable Montgó, pero últimamente, estas personas son mi Denia.

Maite, mi madre española, influyó mucho mi buena experiencia en España. Comíamos juntos, me enseñó como hacer una buena tortilla y íbamos a los cafés para meriendas de pan tostado y café con leche. Ella compartió conmigo no solo su piso y comida bien preparada; también compartió sus historias, su sabiduría y su amor.

Y compartió sus vecinos. La mesa de mis vecinos era una buenísima aula de clase. Mientras comía un gran plato de paella, escuchaba sus voces, cada uno tratando de hablar más fuerte que los otros, y aprendí mucho de su país y su cultura. Pero también aprendí las cosas que solo se puede descubrir a través de una amistad: las historias personales, las raíces de su cultura y las razones porque le aman su país.

Y yo también me enamoré de España, de Denia y de cada uno de estas personas queridas.

When I think about my semester in Denia, the first thing that comes to mind is the people: my dear Spanish mamá, the beautiful Maite; her friend María; my neighbors; the friends I met at church; my professors. It's true that there is an incredible sea, lovely streets, a castle and the formidable Montgó, but in the end, these people are my Denia.

Maite, my Spanish mamá, had a tremendous influence on my good experience in Spain. We ate meals together, she taught me how to make a proper tortilla española and we went to the cafés for pan tostado and café con leche. She shared with me not only her flat and delicious meals; she also shared her stories, her wisdom and her love.

And she shared her neighbors. The table of my neighbors was an excellent classroom. While eating a plate heaped with paella, I would listen to their voices, each one trying to talk over the others, and I learned about their country and their culture. But I also learned the things that one can only learn through friendship: the stories of their lives, the roots of their culture and the reasons why they love their country.

And I also fell in love with Spain, with Denia and with each one of these dear friends of mine.

where I want to be.

Here in Michigan, we are currently in the strange in-between that brings us from winter into spring. One day, the sun shines brilliantly, and the next, there's, oh you know, an ice storm. Of course.

I sometimes feel like I'm in that strange space in my life as well. There's much that is good, but other things are...not good. In terms of what frustrates, tires and worries me most, I have tremendous hope for a time in the future when things will be different, but that's still far-off.

And really, this is a microcosm of the broader sense of life as already-and-not-yet. We experience some of the wonder and beauty of how things ought to be, how they someday will be, but we're not quite there. Rather, we are perpetually between seasons; life will always be hard and complicated and confusing...though some days more than others.

Last Monday, for example, I was feeling quite sad, and rather inexplicably so. My dearest one listened as I told him all of the small things that were contributing to my melancholy state. I'd been thinking about baking a cake, as that's generally a good cure for sadness, and, because he knows me well, he nudged me gently into the kitchen, and, because he is wonderful, he helped. Not too long after, with the cake in the oven and the scent of orange already wafting through the air, we sat back down, and I was surprised to find that I no longer felt quite so out of sorts.

Let me be honest: I'm fighting the urge to be rather sentimental right now. And I'm going to give in, if just a little bit. It turns out that it's true that sometimes one singular person can make that which is bad better. Having been in the happy-single camp for twenty-three-and-some solid years, this is kind of a revelation to me. I'm certainly not suggesting that a significant other is necessary; singleness is good and lovely, and community can bring all kinds of beauty and depth and companionship.

But for me, right now, when trouble or sadness comes, however small, I know where I want to be: with Ben. And if we happen to be sitting on the chocolate brown futon in my little apartment, the air filled with the aroma of a baking cake bright with the scent of orange...well, all the better.

Now. About this cake.

Oh, this cake, people, this cake! Along with the delightful flavor of orange, it has a delicate yet rustic crumb, is full of wholesome ingredients and requires only one bowl. One! And if you're wondering when would be an appropriate time to bake it, know that the citrus makes it perfect for winter, but it's also so fresh, like springtime. And as for the in-between times, those always necessitate cake.

So anytime, really.

Once you have baked this delightful cake, eat a piece late at night while sitting alone in the calm silence, and be reminded that life really is alright. Or share a piece with a friend or neighbor, who will certainly feel loved.

And if there is one particular fellow or lady who makes your bad days brighter, hold that hand tightly, share a slice (or two or three) and be very thankful. (Yes, I know. I didn't forget I said that.)

Olive Oil Orange Cornmeal Cake
Adapted slightly from Kristen at The Kitchen Sink, who adapted slightly from Martha Stewart.

The original recipe calls for blood oranges for the juice and zest, but on that Monday, I was not about to go out to pick up more ingredients, so we used what I had--plain old oranges--and the results were lovely. (The juice was from concentrate, to be honest, and I'm only slightly ashamed. It was easier, and that mattered. But don't worry, we ate the oranges we zested.)

1/2 cup olive oil, plus more for pan
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cup sugar, divided
1/2 cup orange juice
1 1/4 cups white whole wheat flour, or all-purpose
1/2 cup coarse-ground cornmeal (I used the pretty red one that happened to be in my freezer)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
Zest of 2 oranges

Preheat oven to 375 F. Lightly oil an 8-inch round cake pan. Line the bottom of the pan with a round of parchment paper, and brush the paper with oil as well.

In a large bowl, whisk together the oil, eggs and juice along with 1 cup of the sugar. When the mixture is smooth, add the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, salt and orange zest. Whisk gently to combine.

Pour batter into the prepared pan, and sprinkle the top evenly with the remaining 1/3 cup of sugar.

Bake until the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan and a tester inserted in the center emerges clean, 35 to 40 minutes.

Cool the cake in its pan for 20 minutes. Run a knife around the edge of the cake, invert it gently onto a plate and remove the parchment paper. Turn the cake back, right-side up, onto a rack to cool completely.

Enjoy, with gusto.

bounty.

I have been waiting--rather impatiently, I'll admit--for the start of the farmers' market here in my dear Grand Rapids. I've been reading food blogs written by folks on the west and east coasts, and as they rave about the markets and their rhubarb and strawberries and ramps, I have been, frankly, filled with jealousy and a great deal of impatience.

Thankfully, the first of May finally arrived, and with it, the spring opening of my local farmer's market!

I was overjoyed.

I love farmers' markets. I love the fresh and beautiful produce and plants and eggs and cheese and baked goods and jam. I love the bustle of people. I love being out on a Saturday morning when the air is crisp and the sun bright. I love the farmers: the lovely old man who delights in the brightly colored stems of chard just as I do, the folks with the pretty display of baskets who will employ one of my dearest friends this summer, the couple with the interesting selection of jams--and the husband's helpful suggestion to pour his favorite of them on ice cream for a summer treat, the people with the plethora of wonderful whole grain flours...

It's early yet, so there wasn't an enormous array of produce, mostly herbs and potted plants and eggs and such, but I didn't mind. I just wanted to be there. I wanted to absorb that spirit of springtime, to revel in the joy of the shifting of seasons manifest in new varieties of produce from week to week, forcing us to move with the earth, encouraging us to live and eat accordingly, breaking up monotony with new life and delightful change.

I came home with spirits high and a bag filled with the bounty of early springtime.

photographs and some thoughts on resurrection.

I let more time slide by than I intended before getting this post up, but no matter. Here are some lovely moments from Easter with my parents. There was quite a lot of baking and cooking, much laughter and good conversation and, of course, joy in the celebration of resurrection.

Home is a good place to be.

For as long as I can remember, my mother has baked wonderful croissants from scratch for Easter, and this year, I wanted to help with the whole process to receive a thorough education on making this ever-so-delightful food.

There was much folding and flour and sticky hands and, of course, a whole lot of butter.

And then there was this:

Glorious. What a woman, my mother! And look how lovely!

We then made this tart:

And we ate and enjoyed and rejoiced.

It was a happy Easter indeed.

And now, since we're on the subject anyway, I have a few more belated Easter thoughts to share...

On my 14-mile run this Saturday (25K, I am ready for you!!), I listened to Rob Bell's Easter Sunday sermon. The whole thing was wonderful (and is available free on iTunes), but one part in particular that gripped me was his reflection on the image of rebirth, an image that, as we see in the gospels, the early followers of Jesus really latched onto. And no wonder--we are all so enamored by a tiny, newly born baby. Part of that joy and fascination, Rob Bell suggested, comes from recognizing the vast amount of possibility that exists for that little human being. She has all of life before her--she could go anywhere and be anything--and nothing behind, no pain or guilt or betrayal. There is only endless, beautiful possibility.

So there I was, rounding a bend on the far side of Reeds Lake, in tears because that image captured me so. And then Rob Bell came to the point of the analogy: this is the rebirth of the gospel. This is what Jesus's death and resurrection offer to us. This possibility is ours as well.

And this is what I so deeply desire. This kind of rebirth, this kind of possibility, this kind of hope.

And there is yet another element to that hope, the sermon reminded me. The resurrection was not something that Jesus's followers expected, which opens a question for us: what else does God have for us and for this world that we do not expect??

As I reflect on this once more tonight, I am giving thanks for the glory of the resurrection.

I am reminded that life is filled with hope and beauty and possibility.

And I am not giving up.

everyday (cake).

Let's start with the name of this cake -- Everyday Cake. Obviously, this refers to the simplicity of the cake and the fact that it is perfect for any old day; there is no need to wait for a special occasion (though I'm of the belief that one never need wait for a special occasion to do special-occasion-kinds-of things, like baking fancy cakes. So that part might be a little lost on me).

But, as per the usual, I started thinking about how this relates to life as well. Living (obviously, though the fact sometimes seems to surprise us) is an everyday affair. This is, of course, the whole finding balance, living day-to-day, being thankful theme of my life at present that I really don't need to wax poetic about here too much more. So I'll be brief. It's simply that I want my everyday life to be meaningful and beautiful and thoughtful and gracious and just; I want to live well even on boring days and sad days and any-old-day days.

And this cake is helpful in that endeavor, because it is an everyday cake, and I absolutely adore it.

The recipe comes from the trusted Molly Wizenberg, who was inspired by Edna Lewis and her Busy-Day Cake. I made the cake first this summer, and I've thought about it far more times than can be considered normal since then. Now, I'm not usually a cake-kind-of girl. Baked goods in general, yes please, but try as I might, I just cannot get that excited about cake. Especially at weddings and graduation parties where it is too sweet and buried under frosting of varied and ridiculous bright colors. But this is not that kind of cake. THIS cake is crumbly and simple and rustic, made with whole wheat flour and perfect for sunny afternoons and well... I'm sold.

This weekend was filled with the aforementioned meaningful normalcy, and with this cake. My parents came for a brief visit (a stop by to see my office, out to dinner at a great local place for much good food and conversation, back home for dessert and the viewing of pictures of their recent trip, making frittatas in the morning with my dear father to enjoy with bakery-fresh bread and jam as sun came through the window and we sipped our coffee, a walk through my neighborhood full of its lovely old houses and little flowers popping up) and a quiet afternoon with one of my dearest friends, Nicole (who is ever-so-helpful as I try to understand living). She and I made this cake. Then we ate it, with high approval. When I dropped her off at home, we shared some with her Little One, who approved as well. And there was church and a very long run and cabbage salad (again) and housecleaning and a happy movie or two. Everyday things. Good things.

Just like this cake.

Everyday Cake

(Very minimally) adapted from Molly Wizenberg

Though I haven't experimented a great deal, it seems that this cake is quite versatile. I think that the all-purpose flour could be nearly or completely replaced by more white whole wheat flour without any adverse effect. As for spices, Molly uses just a dash of nutmeg; we used both nutmeg and cinnamon. We also threw a handful of blueberries (frozen from last summer's harvest and contributed by Nicole, who clearly planned ahead for winter far better than I did this year) on top, along with a dusting of more of the spices. I'd imagine sliced almonds would work well also.

This cake is perfect for mid-morning or late afternoon; it would also be lovely breakfast treat or an actual post-dinner dessert. I think that a dollop of yogurt (normal or Greek), possibly sweetened with honey or maple syrup, goes nicely on top, as does any kind of fresh fruit, but the cake is also just wonderful plain. So follow your heart. And your stomach. And enjoy.

1 stick (4 oz.) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 1/4 cups granulated sugar (I used slightly less)

3 eggs

2 tsp. vanilla extract

1 cup white whole wheat flour

1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour (experiment with the proportions of the flours to your taste)

2 tsp. baking powder

1/4 tsp. salt

A dash of nutmeg or cinnamon or both

1/2 cup plain yogurt (I used nonfat)

Preheat the oven to 375°. Grease a 9-inch springform pan with butter.

In a large bowl, blend the butter and sugar with a hand mixer until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add the vanilla extract and beat again.

In another bowl, mix together the dry ingredients: the flours, baking powder, salt and spice(s).

Add about 1/4 of the flour mixture to the butter mixture, and beat on low speed until just combined. Add 1/3 of the yogurt; beat again. Add the remaining flour mixture in three more doses, alternating with yogurt and beating each time to incorporate. Use a rubber spatula to scrape the sides of the bowl and stir in any loose flour.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan, spreading it evenly across the top. Bake for about 35 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. (The cake browns rather quickly on the top, so tent with aluminum foil after about 20 minutes. I did this after about 25, and you'll notice that the edges of my cake are somewhat dark, so I would certainly recommend this step.) Remove the cake from the oven. Cool in the pan on a rack for 20 minutes, then remove the sides of the pan and continue to cool.

Serve slightly warm or at room temperature.

springtime! in my office!

To further confirm what I already believed -- namely, that my parents are some of the most wonderful people. ever. -- they sent me flowers at work today, for no reason in particular save springtime (and maybe the knowledge that I wasn't having the best of weeks, which may or may not have involved, among other things, a mouse that did get caught in a trap but did not die). There is now a basket overflowing with purple and yellow and white and green in the corner of my desk. My flowers are beautiful, they smell of wonder and Easter and hope and finally there is something ALIVE in this office (other than me).

I was having trouble making my thankful list this morning. No longer.

Okay. So long as this loveliness doesn't distract me too much from the enormous manuscript to be edited, I will make it through this day.

(Thank you.)

springtime, hope, purple cabbage

It doesn't seem that long ago that I was writing of the shifting of summer into fall. And yet, as I reflect on that season of my life and think of all that has happened since, it suddenly seems as though years and worlds have gone by. We have indeed traveled from fall through winter and into spring, and now it is official.

Happy springtime, my friends.

I probably spent, oh, the entire second half of winter reminding myself and others that I like having four seasons and that we couldn't possibly appreciate the warmth and sunshine of spring and summer as much as we do if not for the cold and dark winter that comes before. And this is true. But I am very, very glad that spring is here.

"Here," of course, is a relative term, and spring in Michigan is a fluid concept. An illustration from this past week: on several weekday evenings, I shed the running tights, Under Armour and gloves to run in shorts and a t-shirt, enjoying balmy temperatures in the high sixties, sunshine and completely dry sidewalks. I walked with a friend to a nearby bar. I marveled at the leaves of tiny tulips emerging from the ground. My bike-enthusiast friends joyfully returned to their favorite means of transportation. And then. And then Saturday came, the first day of spring marked by snow coming steadily down all the day long, blanketing the ground and pelting my face with freezing flakes as I rounded Reeds Lake on the week's longest run (of course I planned that one for Saturday).

However, today brought more sunshine, and the snow melted. And I think we're all quite aware that the official commencement of spring has nothing to do with temperatures and precipitation anyway. I look forward to all this season will bring: the return of the blessed farmers' market, bikes, tulips, sweaters and light jackets, the turned-up cuffs of my jeans, long walks, brighter evenings, hope.

And in the end, I think that's really it: what I most love about the changing of the seasons is the hope that comes with the transition. It's like a promise. Things are shifting. Greater joy, greater fullness, more beauty are yet to come...

I am well aware that we may not have seen the last of the snow/cold, so until spring proclaims its sustained presence, I will welcome it in other ways. Along with the bikes and sweaters and such, springtime makes me think of brightly colored produce. And scones. (Really, I'm serious. It does.) Since my sister covered the scones already today, I will leave you with a recipe that involves the beautiful purple cabbage I have been rather obsessed with as of late, a winter vegetable whose brilliant color speaks of more than dark skies and the moldy snowdrifts of late winter.

To me, it speaks also of hope.

Purple Cabbage Salad with Lemon and Parmesan

Adapted from Molly Wizenberg's A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table

Meticulous baker and perfectionist I may be, but surprisingly, I don't follow any calculated formula for my version of this salad. I most often just throw it together in one bowl, taste and adjust to my liking and then pop it in some tupperware for part of a workday lunch. I generally go pretty light on the olive oil and heavier with the lemon, and I always season quite thoroughly with the salt and pepper. I also think it's quite excellent with a handful of garbanzos thrown in, but I do have a bit of a thing for garbanzo beans (and by this I mean that sometimes I eat them straight from the can), so I recognize that this might not be to your liking.

All that to say approximations and variation work quite well with this recipe. I've given Molly's measurements here, though, so as not to leave you completely in the dark. As always, Molly does not disappoint... this salad is bright and lovely, just like springtime and hope.

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons lemon juice

1 clove garlic, or to taste, pressed

1/8 teaspoon (or so) salt

1 small head (about 1 1/2 pounds) purple cabbage

1/4 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano (or another hard cheese)

ground black pepper

Whisk together the olive oil, lemon juice, garlic and salt in a small bowl. Set aside.

Prepare the cabbage by removing any bruised or wrinkled outer leaves and trimming the root end. Cut the cabbage into quarters, and then, one quarter at a time, slice the cabbage as thinly as possible (aim for 1/4 inch slivers).

In a serving bowl (or, to skip a step, your tupperware lunch container), toss the cabbage with a large spoonful or two of dressing (you will likely have some left over, but it will keep in the refrigerator and nicely top another salad or, along with a grated hard cheese such as Parmesan, a bowl of garbanzos. And please note: the latter is a brilliant and well-tested suggestion first of Molly, not of this clearly biased garbanzo-aficionado!). Add the Parmigiano-Reggiano and toss gently. Season with pepper. Taste and adjust the various components as needed.

Serve, enjoy and be filled with sustenance and joy and hope and all manner of good things.

Yield: about 4 servings as a side; about 2 as lunch