To go along with the curry meatballs, I wanted something light and cool to temper the spice and heat of the meat, so I came up with this rather plain side dish of rice noodles. It was simple enough – much of the work was simply slicing and dicing, lopping and chopping (which can be just as tedious as mini-meatball-making,) but there is something peaceful about the process.

As is often the case, I took a number of online recipes and pulled the best bits of each, settling on this rather rough mix of fresh veggies and herbs. While the rice noodles were cooking I started with thin matchsticks of carrots and cucumbers.

(The thin rice noodles I used were done in a fast five minutes, at which point I drained them and rinsed them with cold water to stop the cooking and chill them a bit.)

Then I chopped up some scallions and fresh mint to add a bit of flavor. I eschewed the use of salt for this dish, aiming to be a little healthier.

Once the noodles were drained, I drizzled the smallest amount of vegetable oil over them so they wouldn’t stick together, and an even smaller drop or two of sesame oil for a hint of additional flavor.

To the noodles, I added the vegetables and herbs and tossed them all together. They chilled in the refrigerator for an hour or so, then I tossed them again before serving.

Along with the meatballs, they made up a delicious lunch. (And several snacks throughout the next few days.)

When planning a light lunch for a visit with the twins, I decided to go for a twist on spaghetti and meatballs. Since noodles actually originated in China, an Asian aspect made perfect sense, so I tried my hand at a Panaeng Curry Meatball dish, served with a side of rice noodles and fresh herbs (coming up later). Andy has always made the meatballs in our family, but I’m learning how to do things on my own, so he had no hand in prepping these (other than setting up the mixer and explaining how I needed to remove the strings of fat that were left on the paddle).

These pungent little balls (I opted for appetizer size, much to my later chagrin) were bursting with flavor, thanks to the influx of fresh cilantro and lemon grass. Some garlic, fresh ginger, and red curry paste rounded out the taste burst, and a handful of panko bread crumbs added texture to the ground beef.

An egg bound it all together and then it was time to begin rolling the balls. This was definitely the most tedious part. It was simple enough to do – all those years of Play Doh paid off, but the amount of balls that came from 2 pounds of meat was, well, substantial. It seemed the assembly line would never end, but I kept at it, whittling away at the block of beef until it was a neatly-formed army of mini-meatballs, ready for simmering.

At this point in the recipe, you could bake the meatballs for use at a later time, or plop them directly into the sauce if they are to be served immediately. I opted for the latter. (Any chance to eliminate a step, particularly an oven step, and I am on board.) The sauce was a heavenly mix of coconut milk, fish sauce, brown sugar, more red curry paste, Kaffir lime leaves (chopped finely), and fresh basil. It simmered while I rolled the meatballs, and was ready to receive them when at last they were done.

The finished product was better than I could have hoped. Every once in a while I can be a whiz in the kitchen, and this was one of those times. The meatballs were busting with the riot of flavor that their ingredients promised. Just spicy enough to keep the tongue excited, but grounded with the earthiness of the beef and breadcrumbs to keep things on an even keel. I topped it off with a sprinkling of fresh cilantro, and we were ready to eat.

Every once in a while I get on a smoothie kick, at least until the drudgery of cleaning out the blender takes the fun away. For this simple version, I followed a recipe in a new cookbook I found, which focuses on fresh and simple ingredients. It’s a blueberry-pomegranate smoothie, and is quick and simple enough to do for breakfast or a healthy dessert.

It starts with one ripe banana (I like mine exceedingly ripe, with a few bits just beginning to brown.) A handful of fresh blueberries (the recipe calls for frozen, but if at all possible I like the fresh). To retain the coolness and consistency of the frozen aspect, I added a few ice cubes. To this I poured about half a cup of pomegranate juice and drizzled in a good tablespoon or two of honey.

Blend until smooth, then add about a cup of plain yogurt and blend again. Pour and serve immediately. It turns into this pretty purple color, and is chock-full of antioxidants. It’s not too sweet, which is good.

(I can only stomach one Shirley Temple a year.)

Whenever I find myself in trouble – emotionally speaking – I tend to do something that gives me a sense of control. When my heart breaks or my world falls apart, I cling to the simple tasks that I can master and see through. Whether it’s washing the dishes or cleaning the house or cooking a meal, it’s a questionable embracing of mundane tasks that I wholeheartedly perform in a sort of act of penance. It’s a way of beginning the healing process, and getting over things. It’s also a reminder that if it came down to it I could take care of myself, as I’ve done in the past.

In the frozen January of 1998, I found myself in such dire straits, nursing a wounded heart, and facing a terrifying loneliness.  Staying with the sister of a friend, in a strange city where trouble found me no matter how good I tried to be, I stood in the kitchen and watched as she prepared her family’s pepperoni sauce. On the verge of tears, I held onto the counter and willed the salty water away. Gina assembled the ingredients, dropping a bit of olive oil into a pan and chopping the pepperoni. I asked her to teach me. I wanted to be busy, to occupy my head with something – anything – else.

She added the pepperoni to the pan, along with some garlic. Soon it sizzled and spat and filled the kitchen with a delicious scent. We opened two large cans of crushed tomatoes, and a small can of tomato paste, stirring them into the pan. A mixture of Italian seasoning, some salt and pepper, a bit of sugar, and a cup of water completed the recipe. Then it was time to let it cook down, when the real magic happened, as the sauce thickened over a couple of hours. That was the big realization for me. It could not be rushed if it was going to be good.

As quickly as I wanted the pain to subside, as fast as I wanted the hurt to limp away, there was no way out but by going through. One couldn’t make it boil quicker or thicken instantly – these things took time, and they would not be hurried. The heart was the same way. To this day, I find comfort in the cooking of dishes like this – the ones that need hours of simmering – hours in which to contemplate, or to clear the mind.