On Saturdays, I like to cook. The day stretches out leisurely before me, with hours to spend. I neaten a table, put away stranded items, put in another load of laundry, polish the door, put away socks, papers, and junk mail, and think of food.
Some weeks we go to the local Farmer's Market, with rows of stalls all selling something of specialty. Baked goods - bread, tarts, pies - and flowers, fused glass jewelry, beautifully polished bowls of locally salvaged wood, seeds and produce - fifteen small farmers organic or not, selling seasonal food bursting with the colors and health as the season intended. It's too late for tomatoes, but there's grain fed beef, braising greens, bok choy, and white turnips with greens intact. Turnips!
It's fall, and the root vegetables are calling me. I contemplate a hearty plate of roasted roots. Or perhaps sauteed? Or a stew? Perhaps roasted, and then stewed, then chunked into a mosaic. Yes.
I pick potatoes and carrots, of course, and then a bunch of turnips, of course, and a few parsnips because they are supposed to be yummy in this sort of combination of course. Onions and garlic and plenty of salt and pepper. Roasted with olive oil, then sauteed in butter, and melted into softness, mashed or spun into flecks, a whole family of flavors in every bite.
On a cold but sunny autumn day, this potage sticks to the ribs, mortar against the windy bite. It's fall. So let's fall to it.