The Endive Chronicles

When I bought the beets for this dish, I actually had no intention of making soup at all. Phil had requested my roasted beet salad for dinner and I guess I went a tad overboard at the produce stand because I ended up bringing home two bunches. I just couldn’t resist those little, orange, light filled beacons calling to me from atop a mountain of brown and seemingly colorless root vegetables.

During the summer, I try to do things like roasting in the morning and usually  roast things that I can use cold throughout the week so I don’t have to heat up the kitchen more than is necessary. I decided to add the excess beets to a pan of Yukon Gold potatoes I was roasting for another dish. When they were done, I had four perfectly roasted beets; but what was I going to do with them? Why, make soup of course.

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Sitting down to an over-sized bowl filled with crunchy vegetables, paper thin beef, rice noodles and creamy tofu all swimming in hot fragrant broth is one of those simple things that just puts a smile on my face. I was first introduced to pho (pronounced fuh) nine years ago by my co-worker Eliz. Each day Eliz would bring in a small vat of pho from the Vietnamese restaurant down the street and each day I would watch him as he gleefully and rather comically ate his pho, all the while wondering what was the big deal. At that time I didn’t really get how amazing simplicity in cuisine truly was and figured that unless it came in the form of a napoleon, vol au vent or needed to be set on fire it probably wasn’t worth my time. Thankfully curiosity trumped my youthful snobbery (some may say ignorance), and one day I asked Eliz for a taste of his pho bo. I still remember how spicy, tangy and full bodied that first taste was and how I knew that he would be splitting the rest of the container with me.

While Phil and I were apartment hunting in April we had dinner with my sister at an amazing Vietnamese restaurant in Federal Way*. I love walking into an ethnic restaurant and not hearing a stitch of English, it seems to signify that something really delicious is in store. The restaurant was full of Vietnamese families gathering for dinner, doing homework and sharing their day; it felt as if we were entering someone’s private dining room. We were served a lovely pot of jasmine tea, ordered fresh spring rolls with an amazing sesame coconut sauce, potstickers, bun cha and my beloved pho. I blissfully munched, sipped and slurped my meal, only coming up for air long enough to help my sister hone her chopstick skills**. This lesson did not go unnoticed by an elderly woman at the next table who took great delight in mimicking my movements and openly laughing at us. Slightly mean old lady aside, this was one of the best meals I have had in a long time. Hot, simple and delicious.

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Calvin was a sixth grader with a Mickey Mouse voice, hair 12 inches high (good for hiding pencils), a penchant for brightly colored pants and unrequited love for yours truly. Shortly before Valentines Day 1990, Calvin called to ask if I would be his girlfriend. I thanked him, but politely refused. When Valentines Day rolled around, it found Calvin sobbing his eyes out at the boy’s lunch table. My classmates spent the remaining part of the day aggressively trying to convince me to give this lovable nerd a chance. They were unsuccessful and I, the villain was left to walk home in tears.

That day seventeen years ago, I swore off Valentines Day for good, although my wishes were frequently ignored. When I was 15 my boyfriend gave me a giant balloon filled with glitter, strange candy, a bear and potpourri; resulting in one of the more embarrassing days I have ever had. At 18 there was cheap candy and sad flowers. Then at 21 there was annoyance coupled with exasperation over wishes ignored and tacky seasonal trappings received.

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