Children’s Song: Green Grows the Mistletoe

I wrote this circa 2001-2002, for my godson Aiden. It’s to the tune of “Green Grow the Rushes O” (trad; here’s a sample recording on YouTube, but skip to 1:12 unless you want to hear a bunch of banter.) It’s traditionally sung by two people as a call and response, switching off who does what number, but that’s totally optional. I sing it by myself all the time.

I’ll sing you one, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your one, o?
One Great Wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you two, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your two, o?
Two, two, for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you three, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your three, o?
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you four, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your four, o?
Four for the sacred quarter-days
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you five, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your five, o?
Five are the points on an apple-star,
Four for the sacred quarter-days
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you six, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your six, o?
Six is still a mystery
Five are the points on an apple-star,
Four for the sacred quarter-days
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you seven, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your seven, o?
Seven returned from Caer Sidi*
Six is still a mystery
Five are the points on an apple-star,
Four for the sacred quarter-days
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you eight, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your eight, o?
Eight for the kinds of poetry**
Seven returned from Caer Sidi
Six is still a mystery
Five are the points on an apple-star,
Four for the sacred quarter-days
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you nine, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your nine, o?
Nine for the woods on the Beltane fire
Eight for the kinds of poetry
Seven returned from Caer Sidi
Six is still a mystery
Five are the points on an apple-star,
Four for the sacred quarter-days
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

I’ll sing you ten, o
Green grows the mistletoe
What is your ten, o?
Ten, for Brigid and her maids
Nine for the woods on the Beltane fire
Eight for the kinds of poetry
Seven returned from Caer Sidi
Six is still a mystery
Five are the points on an apple-star,
Four for the sacred quarter-days
Three for the Morrigan
Two, two for day and night, spinning round and round, o
One great wheel a-turning, and ever more shall be so

* “Except seven, none returned from Caer Sidi” is a line from the Spoils of Annwn, a poem attributed to Taliesin which I first heard told by Robin Williamson on his “Five Bardic Mysteries” recording.

**I don’t know where this came from, so it might be totally without documentable basis, but I have the lore in my head that bardic poetry has eight purposes: Arbitration, blessing, cursing, worship, prophecy, remembrance, praise, and mockery.

How I Woad: Using Woad for Body Painting

…and for dyeing, in a modern reenactment context. (This is mostly about body painting, but if you like you can skip down to the bit about the colors you can get using woad as dye.)

Caution: Woad can cause allergic reactions and irritate eyes and other sensitive areas. Your use of any techniques or instructions herein is at your own risk. Be sensible.

I’ve been using woad as a body-painting pigment for nearly 20 years, in the context of an Iron Age Celtic reenactment/living history group. I’m writing up my experience for use at an Arts & Sciences class at Pennsic XLV.

Pennsic is an event of the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA). My group, Clanne Preachain, is an independent “non-Kingdom ally”—many of our members are also SCA members, but I’ve never been a card-carrying SCAdian. I will update this post after Pennsic with photos (and possibly more measurements) from the hands-on portion of the class.

Michelle Beck, with woad, in firelight at the Aerie of Tir Thalor, Pennsic XLIII (used with permission)
Michelle Beck, with woad by me, in firelight at the Aerie of Tir Thalor, Pennsic XLIII (used with permission)

These are my notes about how I adapted woad lore and research for use in the modern reenactment context. My goal here is to share what I do—not to convince you that insular Celts and/or Picts definitely, for sure, really did use woad as body paint and/or tattooing pigment. (Maybe they did. Maybe not. There are strongly differing opinions and contradictory research.) But “The ancient Britons painted themselves with woad” is traditional lore in England. I learned it as a child, as “part of the rich tapestry of our island story” (as P.G. Wodehouse might put it). If anyone wants to argue about this during class, we can—but putting that question to rest is not my primary goal.

Master Vortigern (Danny Hansen) with woad by me, 2014. Photo by Master Ursus (Tim Tyson), used with permission.
Master Vortigern (Danny Hansen) with woad by me, in Anglesey camp at Pennsic, 2014. Photo by Master Ursus (Tim Tyson), used with permission.

The most useful summary of sources (including many of the controversies over translation and source reputability) and techniques that I have come across is Gillian Carr’s “Woad, Tattooing and Identity in Later Iron Age and Early Roman Britain” [see note 1]. I read the paper some time ago, but it was recently brought to my attention again by Laurah Jurca, who is the motivating force behind me teaching this class (and who has made this “Woad Map” handout with a lot more information).

Clanne Preachain is not a reconstructive archaeology group; we strive for a tribal, mythopoetic, and artisanal authenticity from a practical, modern standpoint. For example, we do much of our cooking on braziers, but our Pennsic kitchen also has a propane camp stove. Sometimes we cook things we gathered, grew, raised, or hunted; sometimes we go to Costco. I bring my woad kit and a drop-spindle to events, along with pharmaceuticals, dental floss, and whisky.

Preachain accumulated a great deal of experience with woad as body paint before I joined in 1997. The group had tested several techniques. Mixing mediums included egg whites, water, saliva, beer, and beef fat—none of which were ideal in our context (for hygienic and aesthetic reasons). Some practitioners used brushes for application; others used cosmetic grinders, fingers, or charcoal smudge sticks.

Cosmetic grinders from the British Museum
British Museum: Bronze cosmetic grinder, mortar component. 2001,0801.1, AN821342001. Image from museum website used under standard Creative Commons terms of use.

These approaches had many drawbacks in our modern reenactment context. Typically, in our group, many people want to be painted within quite a short time, so a bulk grinding technique is necessary. The designs need to dry quickly. Most of our events take place in much warmer climates than insular Celts would have had to deal with, and some materials spoil too rapidly in the heat. I didn’t like the smudge sticks as an implement (both for their modern appearance and the quality of line). I tried several different approaches before settling on my current techniques and materials—and I encourage you to do the same. Here’s what I do.


  • Kit containment: You’ll want a basket, a box, or at least a pouch to keep your kit in. (Pouches tend to mash brushes, though. Mashed brushes are hard to paint with.)
  • Powdered woad pigment: The Limner’s Guild booth at Pennsic has carried pure Scottish woad for years (and the new management assures me they will continue to do so). Woad should be available from the Guild’s website shortly as well. Other sources include the Woad Center and All About Woad (both in the U.K.). {Tangent: If you want to grow your own woad, excellent instructions for extracting woad pigment (“indigotin”) from the leaves can be found on the “All About Woad” site’s Woad Extraction page. I have never extracted woad myself. Woad can be grown successfully throughout much of the U.S., but check with your local agriculture extension service, as in some places it is classified as an invasive. My sister Michelle Parrish is a natural dyer and master weaver, and has many posts on her blog about her adventures growing and processing woad. [Side note from the tangent: I am intrigued by this “Ancient Blue crystal woad,” which is a stain as opposed to a surface pigment—it’s made by interrupting the extraction process before the pigment precipitates. It’s derived from indigo, not woad (same pigment, different plant), and I haven’t tried it.]}
  • Mortar and pestle: I tried a museum reproduction cosmetics grinder (very similar to the one at top right in the museum photo above); it worked very well, but only on tiny amounts of pigment at a time. For the number of people and the scale I usually paint at, it wasn’t enough. I eventually settled on this “mushroom” style. Most stone or ceramic mortar and pestles (mortars and pestles??) would work, I think, but I imagine the tactile clues to a perfect grind would be different.
Mortar and pestle, made of marble; the pestle is shaped like a mushroom.
Mortar and pestle, made of marble; the pestle is shaped like a mushroom. This image comes from, . I’m not trying to get you to buy anything; this is just for proper image attribution.
  • Whisky: It’s not documentable to Preachain’s period (which is just pre- and post-Roman contact among the insular Celts), but high-proof liquor is my favorite mixing medium/solvent. I use whisky. There is evidence of distillation in Mesopotamia as early as the 2nd millennium B.C.E, but nothing documented for the British Isles until the 15th century A.C.E. Alcohol evaporates quickly off the skin, so the pattern sets quickly—important to our context of “Everyone get woaded and go somewhere together!” I think whisky’s slightly resinous quality does nice things for the paint consistency; vodka hasn’t worked as well for me. Alcohol also evaporates out of the woadbowl before any noticeable nastiness develops. It leaves something quite similar to ink-cake, that can be re-used just by adding more whisky. What not to use:
    • Ammonia. Don’t do it. Despite persistent and passionate rumors to the contrary, it does not make the woad stay longer on your skin. It could irritate your skin very badly. And it’s nauseating to paint with.
    • Wine, beer, and other alcoholic liquids with residual sugar get sticky and itchy on the skin, attract insects, and can mold or turn to vinegar in the bowl. Not desirable.
    • Egg white and egg yolk flake off the skin once dry, and foul the bowl quickly unless you rinse it out frequently, which wastes an awful lot of woad.
    • Saliva on its own is loaded with potential ick.
    • Water is OK, but drippy to paint with and takes a long time to dry (which is fine if you’re lazing around painting all afternoon; not so much when everyone is trying to get out the gate).

      Me, with paintbrush, painting one kinswoman while having my hair done by another.
      Me, with paintbrush, painting one kinswoman while having my hair done by another. Photo by Derek Nestell, used with permission. (I also enjoy and am slightly embarrassed by the jumble of modern and period-appropriate stuff in this picture.)
  • Powdered rosemary: Optional. A pinch of rosemary in the grind takes the edge off woad’s pungent, wet-dog odor, toning down the more objectionable notes. Adding it into the grind, not the mixing bowl, ensures that it doesn’t affect the coverage quality. If you’re at Pennsic, Auntie Arwen and Brush Creek Wool Works might carry powdered rosemary. I get mine from Penzeys. Another woad-painter I know used to put a couple of drops of lavender oil in her woadbowl for the fragrance, but I didn’t like what that did to the coverage quality (for me—her woad was always beautiful). Now one of my campmates is anaphylactically allergic to lavender, so it’s not an option.
  • Gum arabic: Optional. A couple of years ago (2012 or 13, I think?), Johann Blau (a longtime SCAdian and armorer of some note) was watching me paint, and asked if I ever use fixatives. I said “Like what?” He said, “Well, my mom is a limner, and she uses gum arabic.” I got some at the Limner’s Guild and tried it. It works well: A bit in the painting-mix makes the coverage smoother and less apt to rub off accidentally. Gum arabic is documentable to antiquity as a trade good in North Africa and the Mediterranean—not very likely to have made it to Britain, but not impossible. I just read that gum arabic is insoluble in pure ethanol, so though it seems to dissolve well in the woadbowl, I’m going to test different batches—one with the gum added as I have been doing, and one with the gum dissolved in water first (hoping to get that test done during the first week of Pennsic).
  • Woadbowl: I don’t like to paint straight from the mortar, because it’s heavy, and I have tendon problems in both hands. The painting-mix is a little bit sticky, and can make the next grind clumpier and more difficult if you make the mix in the mortar. For your woadbowl, find something non-porous that fits your hand comfortably. Ceramic or glass cups, small bowls, or scallop shells work nicely. (The one I use is from Maggie the Potter at Feed the Ravens.)
  • Storage jars/vials: Up to you. I use small corked clay jars from Dancing Pig, corked glass vials from Bitty Bottle, and a birch box from Feed the Ravens.
  • Brushes: Cosmetics grinders have been put forth in the scholarly literature as all-in-one grinders and applicators, but I didn’t enjoy them as an artistic tool. They don’t offer enough control for the kinds of designs I was after. I have tried a lot of brush types. My favorite: the Winsor & Newton Squirrel Mop series. My not-very-deep inquiry suggests that the Egyptions, Greeks, and Romans used squirrel brushes for painting and cosmetics, but I don’t have research to support that (yet). Squirrel mops are widely available at art supply stores and online. I like the look of them. With their wire-wrapped goose-quill ferrules, they aren’t obviously modern from a few feet away. I use size 000 or 00 for faces, and size 1 for larger body pieces. They hold a lot of color, and the line quality works well for my style of painting—I don’t feel like I’m fighting the brush to get the line I want, most of the time. Oddly, squirrel mops are not featured on Winsor & Newton’s USA/Canada site, but they are on the UK site and on

    Winsor & Newton squirrel mop brushes
    Winsor & Newton squirrel mop brushes
  • Chopstick or scraping stick: There’s a fair amount of scraping and chipping of dried woad involved in this process. Using your brush handle is tempting, but the chipping wears the handles down and makes them prone to splitting. I have a special carved stick that I got from Feed the Ravens. A wooden chopstick with a tapered shape would work fine.


I have found woad pigment for sale in two forms: Chunks, and powdered. The chunks take longer to break down, but even the pre-powdered form is not fine enough for my liking. The grains clump and leave visible streaks. I developed a wet-grinding technique to overcome this. It is best learned in person; the clues to a correct consistency are tactile. I start with a packet/5g of woad powder in the mortar, and add a pinch of powdered rosemary. Then I take a sip of whisky and spit it into the mortar. I could measure as I do this, I guess…but I think the saliva is important. (If you aren’t comfortable getting a little bit of my spit on you, I’m not the painter for you. This is a tribal-identity activity we’re talking about. Friends and family.) Grind carefully—the mixture oozes and blurps over the edge of the mortar easily. At the beginning, you can feel/hear the grittiness of the grain size. After about 10-15 minutes (?) of grinding, the mix changes and takes on what I call a “silky pudding” consistency—the grittiness feels suddenly gone. At this point I scrape the paste into a holding jar. It’s very concentrated, and it doesn’t matter if it dries out.

Mixing into Body Paint

Put about 1/2 tsp (?? I’ll measure, next time…) of paste into your bowl and add a bit of gum arabic. (I measure the gum arabic with my brush—about an inch of gum along the brush handle. This would be easier with photos.) Take a sip of whisky and spit it into the bowl. Mash the paste into the whisky with your stick, then mix with your brush until smooth. You’re going for a consistency between ink and poster paint. Test it on your hand to check the coverage quality. I’m sure that’s a personal preference.


Advise first-time woad recipients that woad can cause allergic reactions, and that if they get more than a tiny bit itchy or have any other allergic symptoms they should wash the woad off, take some Benadryl, and seek medical assistance as necessary. (I have painted hundreds of people, and have seen two instances of allergic reaction–one immediate, and one that didn’t emerge until the next day.)

Don’t paint above someone’s eyes during the day or on a warm night unless they know what they are getting into. Woad in your eyes stings.

This process will not stain skin, but it can be difficult to remove completely all at once. It can typically be removed with a baby wipe or with soap and water. Woad comes off oily skin more easily than dry skin. The woad can get rather deeply into some people’s pores, and take a couple of scrubbings to remove. It will rub off onto your bedding (or your partner) if you go to bed with it still on—but in my experience it washes out quite easily. (It generally won’t stain fabric permanently unless you use a mordant and/or dip the fabric/fiber in the woad vat before the color has precipitated out.) I have seen woad designs stay on skin for as long as four days before the detail is all rubbed out, leaving a dove-grey shadow. If you re-paint the same design in the same place for several days, or just one day with a lot of sun exposure, you can get woad tan lines/shadows.

A by-appointment piece for the Warlord of the Free Company of Anglesey, another non-Kingdom ally, in 2015. This piece took about 90 minutes.
A by-appointment piece for the Warlord of the Free Company of Anglesey, another non-Kingdom ally, in 2015. This piece took about 90 minutes. Photo by Amy Ripton, used with permission.

Sunscreens and makeup can make the woad bead up and not stick well. I am considering some tallow-and-beeswax experiments for daytime use (thinking that a lip balm/wax pencil kind of texture might work better than the alcohol suspension over sunscreen and makeup, as well as on oily skin). But grease never dries all the way, making it more likely to smear and get on other things. Maybe a chalk powder over the paint to set it? I’ll do more experiments…

The design style is completely up to you. I started with freeform doodles, then got more serious with typical La Tène motifs from coins, stonework, and metalwork. I have gradually developed a personal style that works with musculature, bone structure, and light. I think it’s recognizably “Celtic,” but I can’t make any claims to documentation (except for “Get out the gate!!” woad–for that I tend to use simpler patterns, very much like those on the coins in the research paper cited above).

Bonus! Woad as a dye plant: Much more than just blue.

As noted above, my older sister Michelle Parrish is a natural dye expert. Years ago, when Preachain was still doing public living history demonstrations at Celtic festivals, Michelle made me an amazing gift: A sampler of hand-dyed, hand-spun wool, with a key to the plants, insects, mordants, and processes she used to dye each sample. Fifteen of the samples—ranging from a pale green through many shades of blue and a couple of rosy-pink-taupes—are colors derived at least in part from woad.

Sampler of handspun wool dyed with natural dyes, by Michelle Parrish of Local Color Dyes (who also grew many of the dye plants). This isn't a great picture. I'll try to get a better one.
Sampler of handspun wool dyed with natural dyes, by Michelle Parrish of Local Color Dyes (who also grew many of the dye plants). This isn’t a great picture. I’ll try to get a better one.

Key: I started typing these out, but they’re very difficult to parse. Here’s a tiny, hard-to-read photo of the key. When I have time I’ll try to do a mouseover image map of this.

Descriptions of the dye plants/insects and mordants used to produce the colors in the sampler above.
Descriptions of the dye plants/insects and mordants used to produce the colors in the sampler above.

I think Michelle would want me to note that many of the red samples are dyed with cochineal, which the Celts would not have had (as it originates in South America). However, another insect, kermes, produced the same color and was a common Mediterranean trade good in antiquity. It’s comparable to the switch from woad to indigo as primary source of blue. (Woad and indigo both produce “indigotin” pigment—it’s chemically identical, but it’s more concentrated in the indigo plant and less labor-intensive to extract.)

[1] OXFORD JOURNAL OF ARCHAEOLOGY 24(3) 273–292, 2005; © Blackwell Publishing Ltd. 2005, 9600 Garsington Road, Oxford OX4 2DQ, UK and 350 Main Street Malden, MA 02148, USA. The copyright terms of this paper are such that I may not link to it from a public website or distribute it via listserv. I am allowed to email single copies for personal use, though.  Go back up to reference point.

Web Writing for Beginners: Simone’s Top 10 Tips

Approx. 5-minute read | I’ve received a lot of requests for these tips, most recently on the email list for the Global Health Knowledge Collaborative. This is not a formal work product yet, so it doesn’t have my project or organization branding on it — it’s what I think, based on more than 15 years of writing on the Web. EDIT, 10/6/2016: It is a formal work product now! Read a slightly more serious version for the knowledge management context on The Exchange (K4Health’s Medium publication), or download a 2-page abridged-for-print version from 

Consider Your Audience

1. Think about your readers.
 Before you begin writing, put yourself in a reader’s shoes. People read on the Web to find solutions to problems, get information, be entertained, or be moved or supported emotionally. What are you trying to convey? Is it useful, interesting, motivating, or energizing? Make reading worth their time.

2. Be careful with jargon. Jargon and abbreviations can be useful shortcuts with the right audience. With the wrong audience, they are actively alienating. Jargon and abbreviations can also be hard to translate, if translation is a concern. Use plain language and spell out your abbreviations.

Jargon tangent: I recently did an informal survey asking friends how they felt about “thought leadership”—an expression I hear quite a bit in my professional sphere. 78 people responded. 10% felt neutral or grudgingly positive. The other 90% felt negative: They found it pretentious, confusing, or Orwellian.

People react to the phrase "Thought Leadership" with words like "Unease", "Orwellian", "Not down with it."
People react to the phrase “Thought Leadership” with words like “Unease”, “Orwellian”, “Not down with it.”

Write Well

“Writing well” is a huge undertaking —far beyond the scope of this tip sheet. The tips below are the pieces of “writing well” that are particularly applicable to writing for the Web. They can be especially helpful for people who are used to writing in a more academic or specifically-professional style (e.g., reports to a particular funder, papers for a known group of experts).

3. Find your own voice, and use it.  Within whatever style guide you might be held to, express your own ideas or build an argument from your own perspective, but in words your readers will understand. Imagine reading your piece out loud: Does it sound like you? If you read it aloud, would people listen? Readers recognize authenticity when they see it.

4. Condense your sentences.
 Check your writing with a readability tool (like this one). Keep your average sentence length down (15–20 words is a reasonable range, depending on your target audience). Vary your sentences — break up long sentences with short ones. (Write music.) Even people who have the patience to read a 40-word sentence on paper may give up after 20 words on the Web.

5. Watch the details. This includes proper grammar and punctuation. Check your spelling. Small mistakes will distract some readers from your ideas. (Imagine grit in a salad. Is the salad still good?) Also, double-check sources and quotations. It’s tempting to illustrate your point with a supporting aphorism from a famous person, or a quote from a colleague—but make sure they really said it. A misattributed or inaccurate quotation can be a big embarrassment.

Web Writing Specifics

6. Don’t paste from Word. Word is full of background formatting code that does not play well with most websites. If you wrote your piece in Word, copy and paste it into a plain-text editor (like Notepad or TextEdit) before putting it into a website content management system (CMS). Yes, you’ll have to re-do all your links—but that’s much less work than cleaning out incompatible code. If you must write in Word, and you’ll be sending your work to a content manager for publishing, it’s polite to include the URLs of any embedded links, so the content manager can reconstruct the links when s/he strips out the formatting.

7. Be conscious of length. 
This tip used to be “Keep it brief.” Experts used to recommend 300 to 700 words as a guideline for blog posts . Over the past ten years, with the rise of Twitter and mobile, very short-form writing became popular — but then there was a backlash in favor of more in-depth writing. It’s not uncommon now to see online posts of 3,000-5,000 words. If you think your piece needs to be longer, consider turning it into a series or a different type of publication. It’s a good idea to put an estimated read time at the top, and/or a summary of the key message of your post (some people call this the “TL;DR” — “too long, didn’t read”). Here’s a tool that calculates read time.

8. Make your piece scannable. Most people don’t actually read on the web. They skim through a page, looking for headings, keywords, and bullets that interest them. Would a reader still learn something from your piece if they read only the first few words, and skimmed through the highlights?

9. Make links meaningful.
 Links stand out — so make them mean something. A link to a video of a cute kid racing an otter is more meaningful and scannable than one that says to click here — even though they both go to (Don’t use bare URLs like that on a web page; they are not meaningful to humans, and they clutter things up.) Meaningful links are also an accessibility issue for people with disabilities. Many people with impaired vision use a “screen reader”—a device or app that literally reads website text aloud. In some modes, the screen reader only reads header and link text — it skips all the paragraph text until the user asks for a paragraph. Imagine the difference between hearing “a recent study about injectable contraceptives…today’s statement by the World Health Organization”, versus hearing “click here … here … click here.”

10. Write a good title. If someone were to try to find your piece with a search engine, what would they search for? Are those words in your title? Are they in your piece? Search engines tend to rate things more highly if the words in your title are also in your text. (Read my colleague Liz Futrell’s To Click or Not to Click: The Art of a Good Title.)

Sassi Saucier and the Potluck Revelation (Two Summer Salads, Good for Potluck)

Originally posted as a Note on Facebook, June 7, 2014. (I’m gradually moving my oeuvre from there to here as other life priorities and the material tolerances of my arm tendons permit.)

TL;DR: Don’t make boring things for potluck.
Skip to the recipes:
Watermelon, Feta, Watercress
Vaguely Southwestern Roasted Vegetable Salad

We had a potluck at work recently. I signed up to make a salad, and then I specified: “Watermelon, watercress, feta cheese, red onion.”

I had a moment of nervousness about that. In my 20s, I thought potluck food had to be “safe”—something I could count on most people being OK with. I think I underestimated other people’s palates, or undervalued my own. I would bring basic salads, or interesting but not terribly challenging cheeses.

At some point I realized that I should just make something I like. If I like it, other people might enjoy it—and if not, I can bring home a few portions of something I will be happy to eat, instead of something boring. I think it was a vaguely Southwestern roasted vegetable salad that did it, circa 2004. My coworkers ate it all. There was none to bring home. The watermelon salad last week would have all been eaten if I had brought a different serving utensil; tongs weren’t the best. A pair of salad servers, one of which is spoon-like and one more runcible, would have worked better. (And word-nerd bonus: I just realized that a runcible spoon could accurately be called “a serving spork”.)

Two Summer Salads, Good for Potluck

I don’t know how many servings either of these make. Maybe 8? 12? Or 20? Depends on how many other things are on the potluck table.

I. Watermelon, Feta, Watercress

Prep time: 20-30 minutes depending on your knife skills


  • A chef knife that you like
  • A paring knife that you like
  • A cutting board
  • Colander
  • Tea towel
  • Measuring implements
  • A small covered one-cup container (like a single-serve yogurt container)
  • Salad bowl (4 qt)


  • ¼ of a smallish seedless watermelon–the kind that’s the size of a slightly squashed playground ball. Not the size that would take up a whole front seat of your car. I’ll take a picture. (In the picture, the cottage cheese container is there for scale.)

    A quarter of a smallish watermelon, a red onion, a lemon, and a lobe of shallot sitting pertly on a cutting board.
    A quarter of a smallish watermelon, a red onion, a lemon, and a lobe of shallot sitting pertly on a cutting board.
  • ½ a normal-sized red onion, sliced very thin
  • 1 lb of feta cheese (I buy it as a single block, in brine)
  • 3 bunches of watercress (on Thursday I only used two, and the watercress all got eaten, leaving unfulfilled watermelon and feta at the bottom of the bowl…)
  • Juice of 2 lemons (They were small somewhat wizened ones that had been in my crisper drawer for a while. I didn’t measure, but I imagine they yielded about 1/4 cup of juice between them.)
  • 1/3 cup? Lots of glugs of decent extra-virgin olive oil. (I used my second-best.)
  • OPTIONAL: Drizzle of super-fancy olive oil (my fanciest olive oil is the most grassy/peppery I could find.).
  • Salt
  • Pepper (do I have to say “freshly ground pepper”? When I say “pepper,” I always mean “freshly ground black pepper” unless otherwise specified. I use tellicherry peppercorns, usually.)
  • Dried herbs that you like. I used pinches of oregano, herbes de Provence, savory, chervil, and shallot pepper (all from Penzeys). You could probably get away with 1/2 tsp of “mixed herbs” and 1/2 tsp of oregano, if your spice collection isn’t so fancy.
  • Half a shallot (one whole lobe—see picture), minced as finely as you can stand.
  • 1 T finely minced mint stems (I realize this is a weird ingredient, so you could use a small sprig of mint—stem + 3 leaves. I had the mint stems because I was using the leaves in another recipe, but thought the stems might add some spriteliness to the salad without being all “MINTY!”, which they did.)


  1. Slice the onion as thinly as you can stand, and put it in a salad bowl.
  2. Dice the feta, and put it on top of the onion.
  3. (Optional: Drizzle a little bit of your fanciest olive oil over the feta, and season with a little pepper and a pinch of oregano.)
  4. Dice the watermelon into 3/4-inch(ish) dice, and put it on top of the feta.
  5. Make dressing in a little covered container (I used a Pyrex ramekin with a lid; an empty yogurt container would work fine): Squeeze the lemons, pick out the seeds; add the mint stems and shallot; add the oil and all the herbs you like. Put the cover on and nestle the container down into the watermelon.
  6. Twist most of the stems off the watercress, wash it, and wrap it in a tea towel. Put that on top of the watermelon.
  7. You can cover the whole thing with plastic wrap (or a lid, or a waxed cloth, or what have you) and put it in the fridge overnight if your potluck isn’t until the next day.
  8. At potluck-time, tear the watercress up (just twist the bunches in half), shake up the dressing and pour it over, and toss well.

II. Southwestern-ish Roasted Vegetable Salad

Prep time: 45 minutes? + at least 4 hours of chilling-time

You probably want to make this a day before your event, because it needs to chill. I just realized this is vegan-friendly. (I don’t often cook in a vegan way on purpose, as you might have guessed from my obsession with duck fat.)


  • A chef knife that you like
  • A paring knife that you like
  • A cutting board
  • Large prep bowl (3-4 quart)
  • Whisk
  • Roasting pan or baking sheet
  • Measuring implements
  • A small covered container (like a single-serve yogurt container)
  • Garlic press (unless, like Anthony Bourdain, you hate them, in which case employ your raw-garlic-puree-technique of choice)
  • Salad bowl (4 qt)


  • 3 zucchini (6-7″)
  • 3 yellow squash (6-7″)
  • 1 red bell pepper (or a couple of roasted red peppers from a jar)
  • 1/2 a red onion
  • 1 cup frozen corn kernels, thawed and dried on paper towels (I guess you could use fresh corn, but you don’t need to)
  • Salt
  • Pepper
  • 1 T ground cumin, divided
  • 2 tsp dried oregano, divided
  • 2 T olive or other vegetable oil (doesn’t have to be extra-virgin)—I’m calling this the “neutral oil” below.)
  • 1/4 c apple cider vinegar
  • 1/4 c extra-virgin olive oil
  • 3 cloves garlic–pressed, or minced/mashed to a paste with a pinch of salt. (I use a garlic press, but I understand there are people who consider that an abomination.)
  • 1 can black beans, rinsed and drained
  • Optional: Chopped fresh cilantro and lime wedges


  1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.
  2. Dice the onion into 1/4 inch dice. In a small sauté pan, cook the onion over medium-high heat in 1/2 T of neutrally-flavored oil for about 5 minutes. Sprinkle on a pinch of salt, some pepper, and 1 tsp of cumin. Cook 5-10 more minutes, until it’s dizzyingly fragrant and starting to be brown on the edges (a tiny bit of char is not the worst thing ever at this point.) Scrape out into a salad bowl.
  3. In the same pan with the other 1/2 T of neutral oil, cook the corn over medium-high heat, stirring occasionally, until it’s brown and a tiny bit sticky. This takes a while, maybe 15-20 minutes?
  4. Multitasking: While the corn is on the stove, you’ll cut and roast squash, and roast the pepper.
  5. Optional/use your own judgment: If there’s fond (sticky brown stuff) in the pan when the corn is done, use the 1/4 c cider vinegar to deglaze the pan real quick (take the pan off heat, avert your face*, pour vinegar in, swish around and scrape up the bits); pour that into the salad bowl with the onion. [*You do not want to get a faceful of vaporized vinegar. It’s not nice.]
  6. Cut the squash into bite sized pieces and put them in a large bowl. Drizzle 1 T of neutral oil over them, and toss with your hands. Sprinkle on 2 tsp of the cumin and 1 tsp of the oregano. Spread out on a baking sheet or in a roasting pan and pop in the oven for about 20 minutes (? maybe 15, maybe 30, depends on the squash and your oven…) It’s done when you can pierce it with a fork without a lot of effort.
  7. If you’re roasting your own pepper, do that while the squash is in the oven: I like to put the pepper straight on a gas burner and turn it with tongs until it’s black all over, and then stick it in a paper bag to cool for a while—then the skin just rubs off. Or you can do this on a grill outside, or under a broiler (maybe?). Or just use roasted peppers from a jar. Either way, cut into 1/3-inch strips and set aside.
  8. In the salad bowl (where the sautéed onion has been waiting): Add the vinegar (unless you used it to deglaze the pan in optional-step-5, above, in which case it’s already in the bowl…). Whisk in the oil, the garlic, and the rest of the cumin and oregano. Taste for seasoning (and most likely add some salt and pepper).
  9. Put your roasted squash, red pepper, browned corn, and rinsed black beans all in the salad bowl. Toss so the dressing coats everything.
  10. Refrigerate at least 4 hours or overnight.
  11. Optional: Add a handful of chopped fresh cilantro and a squeeze of lime juice right before serving. For potluck, it’s thoughtful to leave these on the side and let people add their own—there’s that “soap-tasting” cilantro problem for some people. (You can’t please/accommodate all the people’s food preferences/allergies all the time; just don’t be mean.)

Evidence, Innovation, and Adaptation

There’s a tension in the social sector between “evidence-based” and “innovative”. Policy-makers and funders have largely gotten behind the concept that basing decisions on evidence is a good idea. At the same time, they want to see proposals and work plans full of innovative thinking. (It’s hard to get support to keep doing what we’re doing–even if what we’re doing seems to be working just fine–without some innovation in the mix).

This has bothered me for years on a purely semantic level. If something is truly innovative, then it hasn’t been done before. If it hasn’t been done before, it can’t possibly have been studied. If it hasn’t been studied, there can’t be any evidence. So how can something be both evidence-based and innovative?

My answer? Adaptation.

Cultural and technological advancement–the stuff that builds humanity, that moves us forward as a species–has been driven much more by adaptation than by pure inspiration or creativity. Taking solutions proven in one context and applying them in another. Hearing or reading about pieces of diverse ideas, and fitting them together into something new. Adjusting to the cultural shock when an old way of thinking proves less than useful, or even untrue.

(Much, much more to come on this. I just wanted to get the core of the thought articulated.)

On Blessings for Babies

My tribe has some new children. We have been around for long enough as a tribe that we have seen a broad range of challenges and triumphs in parenting. We’ve got a greater awareness of the pressures and factors that we didn’t have to contend with ourselves, but that are major stressors on our children. Being asked to write a blessing for them this Imbolc, I started thinking about baby-blessings in general–what I wanted to accomplish or avoid in this new piece.

Most baby-blessings I have seen tend to be parental wishlists, or paeans to innocence and potential (boiling down to “be healthy and happy and successful, you precious little angel, and also reflect well on me”). I wanted to avoid putting any expectations on our children. I also wanted to avoid being the unwitting thirteenth fairy–afraid that by writing a list of wishes, I would leave something out, making room for a curse or a specific weakness. And I’m tired of rose-colored glasses, of trying to put the best face on everything.

Life is hard, and we’re not perfect, and it’s still all worth the striving.

Welcome to Preachain

Welcome, child now among us. We’ve waited for this day.
We’re your tribe. We are your family. We will love you, come what may.
We are glorious, and broken. We are fine, and we are frayed.
We are strong, and we are ailing. And we’ll love you, come what may.

We are druids, bards, and warriors, and cooks, and smiths, and fools.
We are drunkards and we’re gossips; we are kind, and we are cruel.
We’re hard workers, and we’re lazy. We are hopeful, and dismayed.
We are generous and selfish, and we’ll love you, come what may.

We are proud, and we are shame-faced; we’re holy, and profane.
We are horrible and lovely, and we’ll make mistakes again.
We are greedy and mean-spirited and wise and calm and brave.
You may be these things, or others, and we’ll love you, come what may.


Sassi Saucier and the Celeriac Sprain

This is a cautionary tale about the perils of chairs, trackpads, and root vegetables. I got a spiral vegetable cutter last Christmas. At the time, I made the (remarkably prescient) statement that readers should expect exclamations along the lines of “Hells yeah, spiralized celeriac!” Little did I know that spiralized celeriac would be the last straw for my right arm. Six months later, I have recovered enough to write about it without risking an aftermath of incapacity and icepacks.

For more than twenty years, my work has consisted mostly of thinking, typing, clicking, and scrolling. My right hand spends long periods on a keyboard, mouse, or trackpad. Outside of work, my smartphone has often been in my hand for hours a day. The way I cook involves heavy pans, tongs, and a lot of stirring and whisking. I’ve never owned a food processor; I like my knives, and I do a lot of precise chopping. I spend at least six hours a week in the car. I also do a variety of arty-crafty things, like drawing complex doodles in meetings, and spinning wool with a drop spindle (sometimes). Ergonomics and carpal tunnel syndrome have been topics of interest to me since the early 1990s. What I wasn’t fully aware of was just how far an untreated injury can throw other things out of whack.

Four or five years ago, I was camping with friends on uneven terrain. With a mug in one hand and two cookies in the other, I attempted to sit in a chair. Unfortunately, the chair’s right rear leg was not on the ground. It was in the air, at the top of a slight incline. Witnesses described my fall as “graceful.” I released my mug gently onto the pine-needle-soft ground. It spilled, but didn’t break. I did not drop the cookies. My right shoulder took most of the impact, and made an upsetting crunching/popping noise as it pressed up against my ear.

Friends untangled me, saved my cookies, helped me up, and asked me to move my arm. Everyone agreed that my collarbone was not broken, but that I should go to a doctor if it still felt bad by the end of the weekend. When it was time to go home, my shoulder was undeniably injured, but it fell into the category of “not that bad”–I could get dressed, and drive a car. I wasn’t even bruised.

So, strictly speaking, the past six months of discomfort, inconvenience, and lack of activities involving arm competence are not the celeriac’s fault.

Celery root
This is usually what celeriac looks like at the grocery store.

Celeriac is a beautiful thing inside an ugly thing. Most celeriac (also called celery root) is now sold pre-trimmed, looking like a large warty greenish-brown turnip.

When I first started seeing it in stores, it was an alien being–hairy and tentacled, with fibrous stalks growing from the top (they taste like celery, but they’re too tough to eat). Intimidating.

Céleri-rave géant de Prague Vilmorin-Andrieux 1904
This illustration only hints at the horror of an un-trimmed celery root, but I’m using it because it’s public domain.
Once trimmed up, the root is harder and drier than a potato, but not quite as hard as an acorn squash. I love it in stews, stocks, raw, or cooked, and especially in a French salad called céleri rémoulade, tossed in a lemony caper-spiked mayonnaise. For that dish it needs to be finely shredded (not quite grated, but almost), and it defies even my enthusiasm for knifework. I was excited to try it out on the spiral slicer–which I did, on January 11, 2015.

The push-and-crank motion required to force it through the blades was difficult. It was too tough for the teeth that cut the “noodles”–it ended up more like a single inch-wide ribbon with pretty score marks. I sautéed it in butter with thyme. Topped with a squeeze of lemon juice, parsley, and some Parmigiano-Reggiano, it was the second course of a strange and beautiful little dinner with a friend.

Ribbons of celeriac with lemon, parsley, and Parmigiano-Reggiano
Ribbons of celeriac with lemon, parsley, and Parmigiano-Reggiano

The first course had been a rather stunning salad of warm beet noodles with suprêmes of pink grapefruit, in a vinaigrette of its own juice with Pommery mustard, grassy-peppery olive oil, and scallions.

Warm beet noodle and grapefruit salad
Warm beet noodle and grapefruit salad

I suppose the process of making suprêmes was a contributing factor. I could blame the beet, too, since that was also difficult to run through the slicer. But it was holding a glass bowl (fingers underneath, thumb on the rim) in my right hand and scooping cooked celeriac into it with my left that finally overwhelmed my arm’s material tolerances.

Result: Sprained right hand. Acute tennis elbow. Dramatic manifestation of repetitive motion damage in hand and arm tendons. Inability (in the short term) to pick up my hairbrush, drink coffee in the car, or use a chef’s knife. Dark days.

It was explained to me that, since the chair incident, all of the structures in my arm had been compensating for the damaged shoulder–and slowly mis-aligning and straining themselves in the process. Physical therapy has included joint manipulation to shift the end of my radius back into its original relationship with my elbow (they had become somewhat estranged); convincing my thumb and wrist to similarly reorganize; and re-acquainting my shoulder blades with each other. That’s going well, but taking time. [Edited to add: It took 480 days. I had my last PT appointment on April 25, 2016.]

There are two morals to this story, as I see it:

  • Internal crunching or popping noises/sensations–even if they are “not that bad”–go on the list of “mandatory doctor visit” triggers, and
  • Some vegetables need to be baked, roasted, or blanched before spiral-cutting them is advisable.

There are silver linings. I feel better equipped to take care of myself in the long run. I know what I have to do in order to be able to use my cast iron Dutch oven when I am an old lady. I see new value in what I used to consider pointless “shortcut groceries” like pre-shredded “coleslaw mix” and “cracker-cut” cheese. And I’m more careful about sitting in chairs.

Fuse: An Old Find

Kathryn just asked on Facebook whether any of my poetry is online. Aside from what I’ve posted (and will continue to post) here, there’s also a video. Zoe Young, an independent film-maker and childhood friend, was staying with me a few years ago, and made this video of one of my poems which I think was called “Ember”. [EDIT, May 2015: I found it! It wasn’t called “Ember”. It was called “Fuse”.]

I wrote this sometime in the early aughts, but I can’t find exactly when–and if I wait to find that information, this won’t get posted. So, I’m posting it. [EDIT, May 2015: I wrote it between Feb. 20 (first draft) and March 1 (last edit), 2002. I’m pleased that my “sometime in the early aughts” guess was correct.]


I beg, amid this day’s frustrations
Beg, O You who pattern pathways
Beg of you your secret sacred
Taste of truth, of sure and certain
Yes, your concentrated influx–
Sudden blaring pulsing fusion
Light-and-music, shells-and-blossoms
Straight to vein-spike bee-hummed starshine
Shatter skull and reassemble
Kiss my fury gone with glory
Wrap me tight in all that’s holy
Slide molecular through mundane cares,
Remind me: Here’s What Matters.
Words and fibers, these I spin now
Breath and meat are what I’m made of
Silver-falling fertile springtime
Rain on long-parched fragrant soil
Rootlets tremble, jagged, fractal
Feed me free-born flesh and apples
Corded forearms, hammer-wielding,
Raising skill and crops and striking
Magma-stirring stones set just so.
Frozen crystals splitting sunrise,
Synapse-crackle, strong embraces,
Drums and honey, woolen prickle,
Wooden, copper, cobalt, amber
Bleached-white bone and deerskin supple
Scales soft rustle, silent feathers
Sudden-indrawn breath for shrieking
Crow-beak pierces through the curtain
Song and laughter, my voice gifting
Tears of gratitude, my treasure
Night and fire, silken beauty
Brainstem-clutching pale Muse grasping
Pre-dawn dreams: I am beloved.
Wild-eyed kin call me their bard,
and nothing less than howling loss
of poetry itself shall break me.

-Simone Parrish / Etaíne na Preachain, February 20-March 1, 2002

The Turning Round

My friend Morag recently discovered that a song I wrote for our Celtic reenactment group a few years ago can be sung as a round with itself, and woven into another piece we already sing as a round. (We don’t sing that other piece quite like the examples I’ve found online, though–we’ve somehow turned it from three lines to four, and added a second verse.)

My song, “Quarter Days,” is rarely sung all at once. It forms part of our quarter-day celebrations, the four big holidays on the cross-quarter points (between the solstices and equinoxes) at the spokes of the Wheel of the Year. Usually I only sing the verses for the specific holiday–the Beltaine ones for our Maypole, etc. I originally wrote the piece for Lughnasadh, which is in August, so even though the Celtic year begins at Samhain I think of the Lughnasadh verses as the beginning of the song.

There’s no recording of this, yet, but as we work on the weaving we might work on recording, too.

Quarter Days

Come we now to mark Lughnasadh,
Three quarters ’round the Wheel.
Now give we thanks for tribe and allies
As battle bruises heal.

Hearth and harvest, welcome brothers
And sisters to our feast.
We’ve fought with valor, shared our treasures;
The crow comes home to nest.

Chorus (2x):
‘Neath our feet the earth is turning.
Stars dance their shining whirl.
The fire in our hearts bright-burning
Feed our passion, light our world.

Samhain night is now upon us.
We turn to the new year.
The ancestors may walk among us;
The Otherworld draws near.

Darkness gathers. Winter’s waking,
as since the Wheel began.
Into his arms all fears now taking
So burns our Wickerman.

[Chorus, 2x]

Imbolc draws us back together.
Winter’s grip is loosening.
Forge-flames dream of warmer weather
Through cold nights’ slumbering.

Share we now what we’ve created,
Our craft and skill we bring.
Let joyous work be unabated.
Through Brigit this we sing.

[Chorus, 2x]

Beltaine’s beauty blooms before us.
Desire warms the world,
Bursting forth in joyous chorus,
New buds and leaves unfurled.

Sap has risen; now breath quickens,
Life’s forces flowing strong.
Wrap the Maypole wreathed in ribbons.
Dance to life’s sacred song.

[Chorus, 2x]

Edit, March 26, 2015: At Gulf Wars, we were thinking we might want to do something particular to mark the Vernal Equinox, and I wrote this, which means I guess I’m on deck for the rest of the solar holidays, too. (I didn’t end up singing it there, though. We did an egg-hunt, with prizes.)

Balanced days are now returning
Tilting back toward the sun
Light is waking, stretching, growing
Dreams hatch through work well-done

Plant we now for future’s reaping
Make plans for summer’s height
Longhall’s rhythm, strong hearts beating
Bright friendship warms the night.

Edit, August 2016: We had some losses as a tribe this year, so our Lughnasadh ritual focussed on the cycle of loss and growth. I added these verses to the Lughnasadh ones.

Our hearts grieve from long-fought battles
And weep for absent friends.
Well-stored crops and slaughtered cattle
Take us through the Wheel’s next bend.

Each night’s fire feeds our story.
Each life that starts anew
Feeds on every former glory
Strengthening the cauldron’s stew.

Scattered seed grows corn to feed us.
Through the dark we reach the dawn.
All that’s been has led us hither;
All that’s here will lead us on.

(Those last two lines are drawn from Robin Williamson’s For Three Of Us, which has become my traditional last-night-of-Pennsic song.)

Sassi Saucier and the Radish Spirit

TL;DR: Spiral vegetable cutter. Daikon noodles. My life is different now. Skip to the recipe.

Me, on Facebook a few days ago: “I need to issue fair warning: I got one of these for Christmas. I’ll probably be posting a series of exclamations along the lines of ‘Hells yeah, spiralized celeriac!’ This video does not accurately reflect my user experience, because at no point does this lady say ‘Wheeeeeee!'”

(Recommend you skip ahead to 2:41, mid-zucchini. I tried to shortcode that for you, but it didn’t work.)

I need to give a hat-tip to Ali Maffucci of I can’t say I’m going to follow her recipes very precisely (or at all). We are Not Simpatico. She is “your typical girl in her twenties looking to fit into her skinny jeans”, whereas I am your atypical/eccentric/outlier-ish woman in her forties striving to improve her overall wellness. But that skinny-jeans girl has some great ideas. Even just clicking on her site’s navigation to see what vegetables she has worked with has been surprisingly useful and inspiring. (Spiralized broccoli stems: Soon.)

Backstory: I have a noodle problem. My metabolism is fantastically effective at storing energy from carbohydrates. I shouldn’t really eat them. I’ve been on doctor’s orders for a while to consume fewer than 100g of carbohydrate per day. Nice round number, that. 100g. Memorable.

I like eating this way for the most part, and it feels good to me. Sadly, I have a weakness for noodles. Spaghetti with oil-cured olives and slivers of prosciutto and some curly endive. My older sister’s signature spicy mac & cheese, with her homemade roasted homegrown tomatillo salsa. But my real Achilles heel in low-carb terms is Asian noodles. Thai, Vietnamese, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, wheat, rice, buckwheat, bean thread, sweet potato, lo mein, pad see ew, ramen, udon, chow fun, pad thai, bún, japchae, whatever. All The Noodles.

Want to know how many grams of carbohydrate are in your average takeout container of lo mein? 100. Also, usually 800 to 1000 calories, and more sodium than a human should eat in a day or two.

I was skeptical when I first heard about zucchini “noodles”. I had an early, scarring experience with spaghetti squash that made me reject ersatz foods in general for a very long time. Spaghetti squash is not “just like spaghetti!” Mashed cauliflower is not mashed potatoes. Don’t even pretend. You are not fooling me. But I discovered not too long ago that zucchini, cut into noodly-julienne, is a lovely thing on its own merits. I got a julienne peeler, which is fine when all you want to do is sliver up one small zucchini. Sadly, it makes a celery root into a daunting thing.

Then came the spiralizer. I got one for Christmas. It makes zucchini super-easy, but daikon blends more deliciously into the illusion of noodle soup, and besides, daikon is fundamentally hilarious. Consider the Radish Spirit from “Spirited Away”:

The Radish Spirit, pendulously belobed and lumbering.
The Radish Spirit, pendulously belobed and lumbering, takes a break from spa business to help a little human girl.

My Whole Foods only sells daikon in bundles of three, which seemed like a lot. They are not small. On the other hand, I have discovered that I can eat a whole radish at a sitting very easily once it’s turned into noodles.

Here are my sketchy notes from Take 1:

“6 c water, 1 tsp salt, 1 spiralized daikon. Rolling boil. Add daikon. Took 1:45 to come back to rolling boil. 2-minute noodles, nope. 3-minute noodles almost, @ 3:40 overdone. Should have cold water bath waiting. Other pan: 1.25 c water (or shrimp broth/clam broth/etc.) 1 tsp each tom yam paste, lime juice, fish sauce, 2.5 oz pork (v thin, tossed w/ tamari), shreds of watercress, stripe of sriracha. Holy awesome, Radish Spirit!”

A 9-inch daikon radish.
One trimmed daikon radish, with a 12-inch dowel in shot for scale.

Yesterday, Take 2, I cooked both remaining radishes (tonight’s efforts took half an hour, but the next bowl of soup will take 5 minutes). 8 cups water this time, because of the larger volume. Pork and a few shrimp, plus scallions, more watercress, a little sesame oil, and crispy shallots.

You may mock my use of commercial tom yam (or yum) paste, but I like to have it around. A dab makes a nice instant cup-o’-soup mixed with bouillon. Plus, part of the joy of noodle soups for me is that they can be ready in 15 minutes–which they wouldn’t be if I were making my own paste. Making my own sounds like fun, but I have yet to find a reliable source for fresh galangal and keffir lime leaves. My local Thai market has frozen keffir lime leaves of extremely variable quality, and I’ve never seen galangal there at all.

Recipe: Daikon Noodle Soup (with tom yam paste, pork, shrimp)

Instructions are for 1 serving. I usually prep enough pork, scallions, watercress, etc. for a week–keep the vegetables wrapped in paper towels and bagged in the fridge, and measure out servings of pork into silicon muffin cups and freeze them into little hockey pucks to thaw one per day in the fridge. Sometimes I use the microwave to thaw but I don’t like it as well.

Batterie de Cuisine (equipment you’ll need)

  • 3 or 4-quart saucepan (for blanching daikon)
  • 2-quart saucepan (for the soup)
  • Small bowl
  • Measuring cup
  • Spiral vegetable cutter. If you don’t have one of these, you don’t want to make this. You can make daikon noodles with a regular vegetable peeler or a julienne peeler, but that sounds like an unbelieveable pain. You could julienne some daikon with a knife, I guess; I love to julienne things (see Duck with Rhubarb-Jicama Slaw), but this recipe is pretty much about the machine and its “Wheeee!” factor. Plus, if you use anything but a spiral cutter, the boiling times below might be off. On your own head be it.
  • Knife
  • Cutting board
  • Colander
  • Tongs
  • Bowl, at least 6 cups, 2/3 full of cold water
  • Bowl for serving, at least 3 cups (and a spoon and some chopsticks or a fork)


  • 1 daikon radish (7-9 inches long), trimmed, scrubbed, and peeled
  • 2.5oz center cut pork loin chop, thinly sliced, rubbed with 1 tsp soy sauce
  • 2 oz frozen raw peeled shrimp (51-60 per lb)
  • 1.25 cups water (or chicken, shrimp, and/or pork broth)
  • 1 tsp commercial tom yam paste
  • 1 tsp lime juice
  • 1 tsp fish sauce
  • 1/4 c finely sliced scallion (you can do this while the water is boiling in step 1 below)
  • 1/4 c watercress, torn or cut into small pieces (no need for precision; you can do this while the water is boiling in step 1 below)
  • 1/2 tsp dark toasted sesame oil
  • 2 tsp fried shallot (store-bought–I get them at my Thai market)
  • Slice of lime (optional)
  • Squeeze of sriracha (optional)


  1. Set the larger saucepan full of water to boil, with 1 tsp of salt in it, covered.
  2. Set shrimp in small bowl of cold water to thaw.
  3. Spiralize your daikon. (I recommend saying “Wheee!” as you do so, but it’s optional, I guess.) One large radish makes a lot of noodles–that’s a 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup in the photo for scale.daikon-spiral-cut
  4. Cut the spiralized shreds once or twice with a knife or scissors. Otherwise they are unmanageably long.
  5. Set the smaller saucepan to boil the 1.25 cups water, tom yam paste, lime juice, and fish sauce.
  6. When the smaller pan comes to the boil, put in your finely sliced pork.
  7. Cut the (probably thawed) shrimp into 3 pieces each and add to the pork. Turn the heat under that pan as low as it will go, and add the scallions and watercress.
  8. By now, your larger pot of water should be boiling. Throw the daikon in all at once. Watch the pot until it comes back to the boil (mine took 1:45 for one radish, or three minutes for two); cook the daikon for 1:30 more (for one radish; only 30 seconds more for two radishes), then drain in colander and put immediately into the bowl of cold water. Drain again. It shrinks somewhat once cooked–it’s now a scant 1 3/4 cup.

    Spicy soup with shredded daikon "noodles"
    I didn’t cut myself, honest. That’s Sriracha.
  9. Put noodles in serving bowl. Pour soup over. Top with drizzle of sesame oil, some fried shallot, and a slice of lime.

Next up for my spiralizing enjoyment: Celeriac. There will be oxtails. I’m excited. That’s Sunday’s plan.