January, despite its paralyzing cold, is always a beginning.
For me, it is the month when my married life in New York began, with my husband’s green card interview. Since meeting Vincent (a citizen of both France and Canada) two and a half years before in the cyberspace between Vancouver, Canada, and New York City, and realizing very quickly that He Was the One, this day had been looming. It had not been easy. Despite having been married for two years already, we had been living obediently on opposite coasts, in neighboring countries, enjoying the thrill of meeting at monthly intervals but increasingly weary of the red tape that is tangled around the Immigration and Naturalization Service. We were in limbo.
It was our task to prove to the INS that we were married because we were in love, and to that end we supplied the INS with the War and Peace of paperwork: the very first comments we ever left for each other after I stumbled upon his website, the long, thrilled e-mails we began to exchange a month later, the pictures and blog posts from our first in-person meeting and all subsequent contact. It was the most documented of love affairs. Postcards, photos, missives from happy and concerned friends responding to my mass e-mail informing them of our intention to marry within months of meeting—one entreating me: “What exactly is your rush?”—and sworn affidavits, the one from my lawyer-father starting in South African legalese: “I am a major white South African male …”
No argument there. But I hadn’t laughed so hard for a long time.
There were wedding pictures. There were pictures of picnics on New York and Cape Town beaches, Namibian sand dunes, in Canadian snowdrifts. There were receipts: for wedding rings and plane tickets. There were phone bills, electrical bills, bank statements. The litter of love.
We celebrated with dim sum and cold beer in nearby Chinatown, giddy with relief.
Chinatown has always been my winter habit. The miasma of summer’s astonishing street smells is obliterated by the rigid cold. The metal light of January reveals repeated heaps of rioting tropical produce—curved yellow mangos, lychees and longans in brown bunches, wiry red mangosteens, palmsized papayas nestling in tissue paper, poles of purple sugar cane—reminding me that this is the city where the planet and its appetites converge. After shopping for sun-filled fruit and bunches of garlic chives we retire to Dim Sum Go Go for their delicate dumplings. On the tables a triumvirate of condiment dishes waits as it always does: the freshly grated green ginger, chewy, addictive XO sauce, and sweet vinegar in small white dishes are forever associated with cold hands, long walks, and a sense of exhilaration. The thought of the juicy roast duck dumplings to come makes life seem impossibly sweet. After lunch we stop at a fishmonger on Grand Street and buy our once-a-year Dungeness crabs, and walk them home over the Brooklyn Bridge.
This is the rare month, the only month, when I cannot tell time by what is in bloom. The botanical city is on lockdown. Street trees are naked, the sidewalks are tight-lipped and weed-free. Discarded Christmas trees cast adrift on curbs weep dry needles, waiting for trash pickup. Concrete and metal and rust and empty earth are laid bare. The city is stripped. The only thing in bloom on the exposed streets is graffiti, which comes into its own: sharks swim up chain-link fences in Red Hook, women warriors wander lost in Dumbo, rats wrestle on Spring Street, and memories of political dreams peel near the Bowery, where Obama still wears his superman cape. A truck’s tattooed and tagged side lights up a dirty snowdrift on nearby Forsyth Street.
Out on Jamaica Bay the small islands in the water are encased in rime and frost. The edges of ponds are frozen and ice entombs the last red berries on autumn olive branches. The Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge has been flattened and smoothed under a layer of snow that dusts the pale beaches with white, frosting even the low-tide mud. In the sepia landscape of brown branches and bleached reeds the cordgrass appears as a bright highlight under a sky that holds more snow.
Tuned to the subtleties of cold, in January we walk. Up on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade we head into a bleeding 4:45 P.M. sun setting across the water over Jersey. Below us the small waves of New York Harbor leave icicles suspended from the rocks and bollards lining the Brooklyn shore. I leave Vincent in the gathering dark above the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, taking panoramic shots of Manhattan as traffic thunders below. Daylight is swallowed by the afternoon dark and lights appear in the rising monoliths of the Financial District across the East River.
I move toward home, stopping on my way to buy ingredients for a fiery one-pot supper, and a couple of cold beers. Once the sun has left the city it is too cold to stand still.
Sweet crabmeat and salty beans are fingerlicking good. You need the freshest of crabs, and I buy mine live. I can only face murdering them once a year. A wok or very wide pan is best to accommodate the chopped-up sections of crab. Two finger bowls of piping hot water with lemon are a good idea, as well as claw crackers and napkins the size of bedsheets. Accompany with cold beer.
SERVES FOUR 
2 fresh or live large Dungeness crabs
1/4 cup (45 g) salted black beans
1/4 cup (60 ml) soy sauce
1/4 cup (60 ml) coconut or unscented oil
1 thumb-size piece of ginger, peeled and sliced into matchsticks
4 cloves garlic, sliced into matchsticks
2 teaspoons sugar
Juice of 1 lemon
1 teaspoon hot chile flakes or 1 small whole, fresh, hot red chile, finely chopped
1/3 cup (80 ml) cold water with 1/4 teaspoon cornstarch stirred into it
4 scallions, white and green parts finely sliced
Fill a pot large enough to accommodate the crabs with water and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, place the crabs in the freezer for 20 minutes to put them to sleep. Plunge them into the boiling water, clap the pot lid on, and boil for 8 minutes. Remove the crabs, rinse under cold water, and drain.
Pull off the hard carapace and take out the dead man’s fingers, which are the crab’s gills. Also remove the gritty stomach sack, below the eyes. The worst part is now over. Cut the crabs in half, and then into quarters. Crack each leg with the back of the knife or cleaver, so that the sauce can penetrate during cooking.
In a small bowl, mash the black beans with the soy sauce, leaving some beans intact. Heat the oil in a wok or large sauté pan over medium heat. Add the ginger and garlic, cooking gently for 2 to 3 minutes to scent the oil. Do not brown the garlic or it will be bitter. Add the black bean–soy sauce paste, sugar, lemon juice, and chile, stirring well to mix. Add the cornstarch slurry and stir. Turn the heat to high and quickly add the crab pieces, tossing and turning continuously until heated through and coated with sauce.
Top with the scallions and serve straight from the wok or from a large bowl. A side of rice, eaten from individual bowls, is always a good idea. Finish the meal with whole mangoes or a platter of tropical fruit.
My brothers, Anton and Francois, watched spaghetti Westerns with their friends on their birthdays. That is how I fell in love with Terence Hill at the age of six, and why I wanted to be a cowboy …
In the movie My Name is Nobody Terence Hill, as Nobody, eats beans. Twice. Those blue eyes in that brown face and his sloppy, happy, wooden-spoon-and-ladle eating inspired me to make these beans for him. Nobody would want to make beans for prissy Henry Fonda.
This makes about four solitary meals or can be split among friends. For a vegan version, omit the pancetta and use mushroom stock.
Sour cream on top is good, too.
SERVES FOUR
2 cups (365 g) uncooked red kidney beans
2 tablespoons olive oil
6 slices pancetta, cut crosswise into ribbons
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts, sliced
5 cloves garlic, crushed lightly, skins removed
2 medium carrots, finely chopped
2 stalks celery, finely sliced
3 tablespoons tomato paste
3 cups (720 ml) chicken stock
2 teaspoons brown sugar
2 Poblano peppers, soaked, seeded, and roughly chopped
6 sprigs thyme
1 bunch parsley
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 cup (240 ml) dry but fruity red wine, such as a shiraz
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Rolls, for serving
Unsalted butter, for serving
Soak the beans in water overnight or bring to a boil and allow to rest in water until cool. Discard the soaking water. In a large pan over medium heat, heat the olive oil. Add the pancetta and cook until some of the fat has been rendered.
Add the scallions, garlic, carrots, and celery and sauté for about 5 minutes. Add the tomato paste and stir until it has lightly caramelized, about 1 minute. Add the beans, with enough chicken stock or water to cover them. Add the sugar, peppers, and herbs. Stir to combine, then cover and simmer until the beans are fork-tender, adding additional stock or water from time to time as needed. When the beans are barely tender, still a little chewy, add the vinegar and red wine. Cook, uncovered, until the wine has been absorbed. Taste and add salt and freshly ground black pepper as needed.
Serve hot with warm rolls and butter. Not that Nobody had either.
What I notice now is not the terrace itself but what lies beyond it. On a sunny day in the thin air of January, the intensely blue sky is an enormous presence. It is this illusion of limitlessness that makes our life in such a small space possible. The variable sky becomes a theater, ushering in panoramas of cloud, etched contrails, a seamless expanse entered only by silent jets flying at cruising altitude, dim silver objects moving at 30,000 feet and beyond to places we imagine or already know, or low, heavy, miraculous machines on their final and weightless approach to LaGuardia and JFK in front of us, to the east, or Newark International behind us, to the west. When the wind is right, we hear the roar of their takeoff, the restrained power of their descent.
To the northeast lies the stepped skyline of downtown Brooklyn. Dead east is a church steeple, copper green and slender above waves of brownstone and townhouse rooftops. To the south is another church steeple, a brown castle with medieval stone turrets now damaged by a fatal lightning strike, and far beyond that a faint hill, pale brown in the horizon’s winter haze. That is Green-Wood Cemetery. The winterbare points of tall street trees punctuate the spaces in between. To look west, and see the water of New York Harbor, we must stand on the terrace’s stone table to look out and over our own silvertop roof, or climb the ladder on the landing and pop the hatch that leads to it. But in January the roof hatch remains shut. The pots of the roof farm above our heads slumber in the cold. Somewhere deep in their soil, I hope that my parsnips are still growing.
This is the big sleep, the rare month when nothing happens. Consequently, it is a useful month for travel. It is hard for a gardener to leave the garden, but the suspended life of the wizened January terrace gives me permission to go, and we fly far south, some 8,000 miles, to visit my parents in sunny South Africa, two seasons and a hemisphere away, to walk and eat in that other garden, my mother’s, which taught me so much of what I know.
When we return everything is still dormant, thanks to the preserving cold. The month when nothing moves is a rare and welcome pause.
In terms of the kitchen, the best thing about January is precisely and perversely what makes winter unbearable to those who flee the city for longer days under a higher sun: the cold. It is freezing outside and I make the most of it by warming the apartment as much as I like with long, introspective cooking. Multiple courses of hot dishes are possible, something unthinkable in summer. An additional perk is that our heating bill is nonexistent.
The dark and cold conspire to make me crave sauces, starch, and slow-cooked foods spiced with nostalgia. I want to eat from deep bowls and dip bread into soup.
January is apple country. Hard cider seems a sensible seasonal drink, and I add a dash of Cognac to make a seasonal apéritif. Sometimes the cognac has been infused with the lemony flavor of the previous fall’s spicebush berries.
If I were a bear, woken and grumpy in the middle of winter, I would want to drink this. A small barrelful.
Enjoy the party. Just don’t wake the bear …
MAKES ONE DRINK
1 ounce (2 tablespoons) Cognac
4 ounces (8 tablespoons) hard apple cider
Pour the Cognac into a coupe and top with the well-chilled cider.
Borscht is probably the most famous—or notorious—incarnation of hated or loved beets. I love them and I love it. Hot or cold, hearty or austere, it is a gorgeous soup. There are countless versions: with pieces of meat and vegetables and big white beans in it, it is a stand-alone and filling meal.
This is a lighter dinner party version, clear and bright red, the essence of borscht. Consommés are an elegant and deceptively simple vehicle for intense flavor. For a gutsier meal, add two short ribs on the bone and cook an extra hour, then shred the meat.
SERVES SIX
1 tablespoon olive oil
5 strips pancetta or good bacon, cut crosswise into 1-inch (2.5 cm) pieces
1 large onion, thinly sliced
6 beets, peeled and grated, stems and leaves reserved and roughly chopped
4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
1 bulb fennel with fronds, roughly chopped
1 large carrot, peeled, halved, and sliced crosswise into half moons
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced
8 whole juniper berries, lightly crushed
5 whole allspice berries
4 bay leaves
1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns
Small bunch parsley
8 sprigs thyme, tied in a bundle with cooking twine
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
8 cups (2 L) chicken stock
3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
Lemon juice
2 egg whites, gently whisked
6 tablespoons (85 g) sour cream, for serving
In a large saucepan over medium heat, heat the oil. Add the pancetta or bacon and sauté gently until its fat is rendered. Add the onions and cover the pan for 5 minutes to encourage sweating. Cook gently and slowly until the onions are golden with brown bits, at least 10 minutes more. Add the rest of vegetables and the berries. Stir. Add the juniper, allspice, bay leaves, peppercorns, parsley, thyme, sugar, salt, stock, and vinegar and stir to combine. Bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer and skim off any foam that rises. Cook, uncovered, for about 45 minutes, until the vegetables are beyond tender. Taste and add more salt if necessary. Add a squeeze of lemon juice.
Strain the liquid through a sieve into a large bowl, pressing all the juice from the vegetables. Return the broth to the pot and simmer until reduced by a quarter, about 45 minutes. Taste and add more salt if necessary. Remove from the heat and allow the soup to cool. For a crystal-clear consommé, add the whisked egg white to the cooled, concentrated liquid and bring it back to a boil. The egg white will coagulate and catch any sediment floating around. Strain through a piece of muslin into a bowl.
Divide the consommé among six bowls and top each with 1 tablespoon sour cream.
In January I have not yet begun to resent root vegetables.
Pale and interesting have always appealed to me. I first ate an all-white salad at Al Di La, where I have loved to eat since I moved to Brooklyn. They treat salads with respect. And without salad in some form, my life is incomplete. Here, raw root vegetables are the stars. Collect as many different kinds of white or pale roots, tubers, and stems as you can find: parsnips, rutabagas, turnips, kohlrabi, radishes, sunchokes, salsify, celeriac, fennel, celery hearts. Sweet apples—Honeycrisp are perfect—and bright pomegranate seeds make the pale salad sparkle.
SERVES SIX
FOR THE SALAD
5 cups (550 g) very thinly sliced mixed white vegetables (see Note)
1 apple, cored, thinly sliced, and sprinkled with lemon juice
FOR THE LEMON JUICE AND HAZELNUT OIL VINAIGRETTE
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
Salt
1/4 teaspoon sugar
Freshly ground black pepper
5 tablespoons (75 ml) hazelnut or walnut oil
TO SERVE
2 heads of Belgian endive, leaves separated
1/3 cup (60 g) pomegranate seeds
Note: Cut the larger vegetables into slivers or batons—mixing up the shapes adds appeal to the salad.
Set the white vegetable and apple slices aside in a large bowl while you prepare the lemon juice and hazelnut oil vinaigrette.
In a large mixing bowl, just before serving, whisk the lemon juice with salt to taste and the sugar until they are dissolved. Add pepper to your tastes (I like a lot). Whisk in the oil until the dressing is lightly emulsified.
Using your hands, gently toss the white vegetables and apple slices in the mixing bowl until they are covered with dressing. Heap the salad in the middle of a serving plate with the endive either in among the vegetables and fruit or arranged around the edges. Scatter the pomegranate seeds over top and serve at once.
This powerful and rustic stew has become a household favorite for cold weather. It evolved by happy accident one night when I did not feel like leaving the apartment to shop. I had chicken in the fridge, but little else. I scoured what passes for a larder and came up with garlic, a shallot, a tube of tomato paste, hot Aleppo pepper, and bay leaves. I added the remnants of a Syrian olive mix to make it look more interesting, and mustard as an afterthought. It is good served with wide noodles. This is what you might eat if Sicily and Syria and France collided. If you hate warm olives, as I used to, omit them, but this dish may just convert you, as it did me. On no account should you leave out the mustard.
SERVES SIX
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 shallots, thinly sliced
1 head garlic, cloves separated and skins removed
1/4 cup (60 ml) tomato paste
6 chicken legs-and-thighs (still attached) or 6 drumsticks and 6 thighs
2 cups (480 ml) dry, fruity white wine, such as a pinot grigio
2 tablespoons grainy mustard
1 1/2 cups (200 g) good black and green olives (I leave them unpitted, but warn your guests)
2 teaspoons sugar
1 tablespoon Aleppo pepper or chile flakes
3 bay leaves
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 pound (455 g) uncooked wide or large-shaped pasta, such as pappardelle or large shells
In a Dutch oven over medium heat, heat the oil. Add the shallots and sweat them, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic cloves and cook until they turn slightly golden, about 2 minutes. Add the tomato paste and stir. Cook for 1 minute—this caramelizes and sweetens the tomato paste.
Add the chicken, wine, mustard, olives, sugar, chile, bay leaves, and salt and pepper to taste.
Add water to barely cover the chicken pieces, cover, and bring to a boil. Lower the heat and cook at a simmer, covered, for an hour. Remove the lid, and simmer for another hour, until the chicken is very tender and the sauce has reduced. Taste for seasoning, adding more salt and pepper as necessary.
Fifteen minutes before the chicken is ready, cook the pasta according to the package directions. Drain it and return to the pot. Spoon the sauce from the chicken over the drained pasta just before serving. Toss. Distribute the noodles among 6 warm plates and top with the chicken pieces. Serve.
I love desserts that quiver. This is my mother’s recipe, and it is still one of the best things she can make for one of her legendary Lunches Under the Tree in the middle of her garden in Cape Town. The bland, just-set custard is pushed over the edge into addictiveness by the suggestive taste of the burned sugar. It fills spaces you didn’t know you had and its coolness is perfect after the fiery chicken.
My mother’s handwritten instruction: “Give Recipe Your Undivided Attention.” So I do.
Make this the day before you need it.
SERVES SIX
1/2 cup (100 g) sugar
3 cups (720 ml) milk
5 eggs
1/3 cup (65 g) sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
Fill a roasting pan with 3/4 inches (2 cm) of water, place it in the oven, and preheat the oven to 300°F (150°C).
Make the caramel: In a heavy saucepan over medium heat, melt the sugar for the caramel until it is amber. Do not allow it to burn. Pour the caramel into a warmed 2.5 quart (2.5 L) custard or soufflé dish and tilt to coat the bottom evenly. Allow to cool completely.
Make the custard: Heat the milk in a saucepan until small bubbles rise at the sides. In a large bowl, beat the eggs until the yolks and whites have blended. Stir in the sugar and the salt. Pour the hot milk onto the egg mixture while stirring, making sure the sugar and salt have dissolved. Add the vanilla extract. Pour the mixture into the custard dish. Tap gently to dislodge bubbles at the sides.
Place the custard dish carefully into the pan of hot water and slide it very gently back into the oven. Bake the custard for 75 minutes or until a knife or skewer dipped into the custard comes out clean. Cool to room temperature and then chill in the refrigerator, covered, for at least 5 hours. Overnight is best.
When ready to serve, dip a knife in boiling water and slide it around the edges of the custard. Place a serving plate on top of the custard dish (make sure your serving plate has a slight lip to contain the sauce from the caramel). Invert the dishes in one quick movement, giving them a no-nonsense up-down shake. You should hear a satisfying plop. Place the serving plate on a flat surface and gently pull off the custard dish. The top of the custard will be a rich brown and sticky sauce will be running down the edges.
