Quotidian

Minutes before our daily walk.

kwoh-tid-ee-uhn
adjective

1. Occurring or returning daily
2. Of an everyday character; ordinary; commonplace

*

It was a rainy morning meant for comfort, for rocking chairs and baths followed by menthol rubs. It was a morning for letting go, so that a mountain of clean clothes rose up from the couch, dirty dishes stacked like stalagmites in the sink, while chicken bones simmered on the stove.

It was an afternoon of sunshine, of snow melting, water running in rivulets down the driveway and into the gutter. The drip, drip, drip beckoned us outside, so despite runny nose and cough, we took off on our daily hike, a wander down city streets, some days here in the neighborhood, other days far from home.

The quotidian nature of the walk disappears with a 2-year-old on my back, and this sleepy suburb trembles with possibilities. Look! A dog barks frantically at the window. Smell! Fumes from a city bus whip around us. Listen! To the promise singing from the ice cream truck outside the school. To each exclamation, I murmur the appropriate response.

Then, I slip.

Boots slide through slush. Feet splay and throw me off balance. The twenty-five pounds on my back shifts too far to the left and I throw out my arms as snow, sidewalk and a pile of steaming, thawing dog shit come racing toward me. In a split second, I will fall or balance will be restored.

Then, our walk continues.

But like my son, I am certain: Today is not commonplace. Today is not routine. Today, I am lucky.

Thoughts unrelated to the sentences that birthed them

Courtesy of lopolis.

Caroline's daughter, little Dorothy, is elsewhere, having reached the age of the disappeared -- her voice shouting orders from behind the locked door of her bedroom or even standing present, her body a studded cast of her former self; if she is somewhere within it she is very, very deep.

-- "A Short History of Women, a novel" by Kate Walbert

Do I like this because it's beautifully written, for its well-turned phrase "age of the disappeared" and for its dead-on description of a teenager lost far inside herself? Or do I like it because I see me and my daughter in these words? Because I am the sadness hinted of when someone slips beyond your reach even as they stand before you.

The last time there was a ball of cells growing inside of me, it was Sherry.

And somehow that tiny ball of cells became a pink screaming baby who became an adorable little girl who became an anguished teenager who became the mysterious grown woman sitting here in the driver's seat of a rented car in Cape Town, South Africa, asking me, "Are you scared?"

-- "Cape Town" by Claire O'Connor, "Best American New Voices 2010."

Here's another set of sentences I scribbled down in my notebook and return to reread and gnaw on. I'm walking this cycle, this circle, the known and unknown, mother and child. In the beginning the path was simple, though exhausting, the baby a mystery that could be solved with a changed diaper, a swapped toy, a spoon of oatmeal. But now rocks have cropped up and I stumble and feel anxious in where my daughter is going, alone in her room. So I stop at the door, realizing my own mother might have paused here too and wondered if she, if they, if we, were lost.

When life unravels with the toilet paper

Artists unknown. Via Share Some Candy.

There's a two-hour delayed start to school and snow is puddling at the back door where a pile of boots, mittens and jackets have been dumped. One child has been banished to his bedroom after slamming a sibling into the screen door when a snowball fight soured.

In the kitchen, a certain 2-year-old has poured the contents of the french press all over the counter and then tried to mop up the coffee with toilet paper. A hammer is being used to open a bag of English muffins.

What's going on? I yell.

"Toast!" comes the response.

If only I had the uninterrupted hours of Benjamin Franklin or at least a slice of this lemon tart, than maybe this blog would happen today, but instead I think my plan's popped. Go check out these cool links instead:

• One way to use up all that toilet paper, or snippets of hair, or rotten apples: Creative alphabets
• A reason to keep writing and tell fear, goodbye.
• I love this look, this comic and this Google Map essay.
• And I was once a breast whisperer, too.

Billet-doux

bill-ay-doo
noun

1. A love letter or note. In French, billet-doux means sweet note or short note.

*

I am one lucky woman. My billet-doux came on Valentine's Day, but the gifts piled up though the week. First to arrive were two books from the Best American series I had on my wish list: "New Voices" and "Nonrequired Reading." Fittingly, the first two short stories I read from "New Voices" were about love, the loss of it and the attempt to regain it.

The editor, Dani Shapiro, promises the stories will be "daring acts of both head and heart -- the intellectual high wire of craft combined with that elusive thing: the capacity to make the reader feel something." With such expectation, I launched into the first two stories. "Bethlehem is Full" by Boomer Pinches is about a man deeply disturbed by his girlfriend's abortion, while David James Poissant explores a father's mistake and the monster he must set free in an effort to set things straight in "Lizard Man."

The arrows sang as they flew through the air and landed with a resounding thwack! in my heart. I'm in love with this book and was deep into it when my husband came home from his woodworking class and offered me the third gift: A freshly planed, routed, sanded and oiled piece of wood.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever made," he said. "Beautiful and functional."

The cutting board is solid, smooth as satin and striped with walnut, maple and eucalyptus. I'm a bit shy about cutting on it, so, instead I used an old board -- stained red where strawberries had bled and scarred by many knives -- to make him Pile-it-On Chili as one of many thank yous for the Valentine's Day that lasted an entire week.

In the bowl:

Pile-it-On Chili
Serves eight

2 pounds stew meat, cut into 1-inch cubes
1/4 cup oil
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon oregano
2 teaspoons garlic, chopped
1 teaspoon salt
3 cups onion, chopped
4 ounces green chili, chopped
15 ounces tomatoes, diced
4 cups water

refried beans
cheddar cheese, shredded
cilantro
green onion
jalapenos
salsa
sour cream or toasted cumin seed crema, if you're feeling fancy
peanuts (I kid you not. Before I had a son with a nut allergy, I'd toss a handful of peanuts on top. It was good. Really.)

In a large pot or dutch oven, brown meat in oil. Set aside. Toss onion, cumin, oregano and garlic into the pot and cook until onions are softened. Return meat and juices to the pot. Add the green chili, tomatoes and water. Bring to boil and then lower heat and simmer for at least an hour, two is better.

Shortly before the chili's ready, heat the refried beans. In a bowl, plop some beans, ladle chili over it and then pile on the toppings.

Priorities

Hair gel courtesy of Darwin Bell.

He was late for school.

But he wasn't hurrying.

Mohawks can't be hurried.

Each strand of the boy's hair stood perfectly upright, creating a razor's edge. He looked to be about nine years old, and I had to wonder, was someone helping this little rooster with his comb or had he mastered the art of gel at a young age?

As he neared, I stopped studying him and glanced away. He was wearing one sneaker.

Just one.

On his other foot was a white tube sock. He carried nothing in his hands, no backpack slung over his shoulders. I wanted to ask, but what was there to say? Excuse me, you're missing a shoe. Sometimes my husband accuses me of stating the obvious as if it were profound, so I remained silent as I passed the boy.

Half-baked: Story's similarity to the scone

Hello, Cinderella.

A scone recipe is like story structure, the scaffolding upon which most tales are built.

A good story needs a beginning or exposition, a conflict that grows to a climax, followed by falling action that leads to resolution or denouement. A good scone begins with the introduction of flour, sugar and butter to milk and baking powder. It grows into a dough, sticky with possibilities the baker must resolve: Will you combine dried fruits with chocolate? Or will you strive for a balance between sharp cheddar and pungent herb? Once the question is resolved, the dough is baked and ready to eat.

While the possibilities are endless when it comes to scone embellishments, there are a handful of basic story plots reproduced again and again, whether knowingly or not, according to "Seven Basic Plot: Why We Tell Stories" by Christopher Brooker. They are:

• Overcoming the Monster A hero must confront a monster in a fight to the death. Jack and the Beanstalk, Dracula.
• Rags to Riches Someone who, to the world seems quite common, is hiding a second, more exceptional self within. Jane Eyre, Cinderella, The Hummingbird's Daughter.
• The Quest The hero sets out on a hazardous journey to find something valuable and usually succeeds. The Wizard of Oz, Raiders of the Lost Ark.
• Voyage and Return The hero travels to an unfamiliar world, which at first is marvelous, but grows increasingly dangerous. After a dramatic escape, he returns to his familiar world, often wiser for the experience. Alice in Wonderland, Gone with the Wind, The Commoner.
• Comedy A misunderstanding causes the characters to tie themselves and each other into a knot that seems almost unbearable. But in the end, everyone and everything gets sorted out, happily. Shakespeare’s comedies, Pride and Prejudice, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.
• Tragedy A character through some flaw or lack of self-understanding is drawn into a fatal course of action which leads to disaster. Madame Bovary.
• Rebirth The hero is held in evil's deadly grip. When it seems that evil has triumphed, the hero is saved, sometimes through the power of love. Snow White, Shadow of the Wind.

Last week, I did a rags-to-riches riff on my basic scone recipe. I took the shaggy coconut, married it to chocolate and created a scone fit for kings. Well, maybe I exaggerate, but that's a storyteller's license, right?

Courtesy of QuintanaRoo.

Basic scone recipe
Adapted from "With Love, From Cynthia: A collection of recipes and remembrances" by Cynthia Collins Pedregon

Makes 8 large or 16 small scones

4 cups white flour
2 teaspoons cream of tartar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons sugar
8 tablespoons butter, chilled and cut into 1/2-inch chunks
1 cup of dried fruit, cheese, nuts, oats, chocolate or a combination to suit your taste buds.
1 1/2 cups milk
1/4 cup cream, half and half or Tuscan Whole Milk, the Amazon essay.
2 tablespoons sugar and 1 tablespoon cinnamon mixed together

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Place flour, cream of tartar, baking soda, salt, sugar and butter in a food processor and pulse until mixture resembles coarse cornmeal.

Pour flour mixture into a bowl and add milk. Add your embellishments. Working quickly, blend ingredients together with a rubber spatula into a soft, slightly wet dough. Turn onto floured counter.

Form dough into a disk about 8 to 10 inches in diameter. Cut into eight wedges. Place wedges 1 1/2 inches apart on greased baking sheet. Brush tops with cream and sprinkle with cinnamon sugar.

Bake 10 to 15 minutes or until scones are light brown.

Variations:

Coconut-Chocolate Substitute milk with coconut milk, add 1/2 cup shredded, sweetened coconut, 1/2 cup chocolate chips. Optional: 1 teaspoon of coconut extract. Brush tops with leftover coconut milk from the can, sprinkle with shredded coconut and press lightly so the shavings stick in the dough.

Cherry-Chocolate 1/2 cup semi-sweet or bittersweet chocolate, 1/2 cup chopped pecans, 1/2 cup dried cherries.

Cheddar-Herbs 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese, 3 tablespoons fresh chopped parsley, 2 to 3 tablespoons chopped scallions, 1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill (2 teaspoons dried).

Imagine the possibilities: cranberries, almonds, orange or lemon zest, dried blueberries ...

A lovely weekend

Ivan and Marcel.

I hope you're spending it with people you love, doing things you love. Happy Valentine's Day.

-Rachael

In which the author ruminates about love

A giving tree.

Have you noticed when a tree is loved by children? The evidence is in the bark, once shaggy, rough and prone to tearing pants and splintering skin has worn away. A round spot marks the place where feet shimmy up the trunk and favorite branches are burnished until they gleam.

*

My body is loved by my small son, who falls asleep cradled in my arms only after his hand secrets its way to the mole on my breast. He covers the tiny bump of skin and closes his eyes, his breath joining the quiet rhythm of my heart under his hand.

A work in progress.

A heart, my heart, aches a little as my daughter slips out of my world and into a world of her own. Afternoons once spent in the swing or in the kitchen as I made dinner, have been replaced with time in her room. Alone. With tea. A book. And a poster of the hunky, werewolf boy from the Twilight series.

Five-minute fix

A solution.

When in the clutches of a chocolate craving, I demand just two things from my fix:

• It must be fast.
• It must satiate.

My first line of defense against this addiction, which grows stronger with the accumulation of gray, cold days, are chocolate chips: a heaping cup added to whatever muffin batter I'm making, a generous scoop at the bottom of a cup of steaming milk, and (when desperate) morsels by the mouthful.

Second in my arsenal is Nutella on an English muffin, a cup of strong tea on the side. I like my muffins crispy at the edges, butter pooling in the cracks and crevices and topped with a slather of the chocolate-hazelnut spread. After making and munching two of them in five minutes, I've found the fortitude to deal with the dregs of a busy weekend.

A road trip

A Haitian woman carries rice rations. Courtesy of U.S. Air Force.

In my mind's eye is a road running through Port-au-Prince that's freshly graded, smooth with concrete and busy with people, scooters, bikes and cars. It's 1995. Bill Clinton is in office, Jean Bertrand Aristide is taking back his presidency after a military coup, and I am a young reporter who convinced editor and Air Force to send me to Haiti to write about that road.

The four-lane highway replaced a pot-holed, dirt road and became a symbol of the country's path to stability. It was built by combat engineers from Las Vegas, where I was a reporter for the Sun. When I climbed on board the C-130 with a couple of blank reporter's notebooks, my Pentax K1000 and a Trash-80, I had one assignment: Cover the road.

For three days, I snapped, scribbled, showered and slept with the 820th Red Horse in their tent city. Every evening, my military escort drove me through twisty, dirt roads to a hotel where the foreign correspondents hung out so I could use the phone lines to file my stories. Afterward, we'd sit in the hotel bar, drink a beer and I'd catch glimpses of journalism literati like CNN's Christiane Amanpour. Aristide was headed home, Clinton was arriving, the buzz and bustle of that city with its rare, paved road was intoxicating.

I was in heaven.

In the years that followed, I'd catch a bit about Haiti in the news and the road would appear in front of me. Then three weeks ago the city was destroyed in a massive earthquake, and I stared at the pictures and maps trying to affix where the highway was, where the hotel was, where the tent city was.

I didn't know.

So in my mind the ground shuddered and the road cracked, exposing dirt once again, dirt that absorbed the people's tears and blood.

Links worth visiting:

The New York Times has an interactive satellite map, showing the city, before and after the January 12th earthquake.

Haitian women are holding up their sky, proving to be reliable and fair at delivering rice rations to 10,000 people every day, according to the World Food Program.

Boston.com's The Big Picture has gathered an amazing and disturbing set of photos of Port-au-Prince, three weeks later.

A group of authors, photographers, painters, quilters and toymakers are holding an online auction, To Haiti, with love.

Aubade

February shadows on the Huffaker Hills' Western Loop Trail, 1.4 miles.

noun
oh-bahd

1. A song or poem greeting the dawn.

2. A composition suggestive of morning.

*

After a rough night, sleep was a shawl that I struggled to shrug off, making the morning discordant and confused. I yelled goodbye to the three older kids from the bedroom where I was discovering that my neglect of the laundry would force me wear mismatched socks and my husband's underwear.

Sigh.

Usually, the morning is synchronized, with my youngest son and I heading out the door for our morning walk at the same time the older kids leave for school. But today my two-year-old stood, jacket and boots on, waiting as I fished for a pair of jeans from the stuffed laundry hamper. I knew I should stay home and tackle the mountain of clothes, but instead we grabbed backpack and camera and headed for Huffaker Hills. (Here's a PDF of a Truckee Meadows trail guide, which includes this hike and others.)

The morning walk -- sometimes a 3o-minute loop around the Sparks Marina, other times an hour or more on a city trail -- sets the mood and melody of the day. It is my aubade. I need this conversation with myself, occasionally interrupted by the chirps and chatters from the little boy on my back. I guess walking is my physical form of writing, if that makes any sense.

Given the day's start, today's walk was critical, so I sought out the gray and empty desert. I needed the vast expanse of sky, the city far off on my horizon, the trail's rocks and mud demanding my concentration. We were enveloped in silence. We heard not a bird, saw not a soul, and although the rumble of a semi-truck and the whine of an airplane pressed against us, it didn't shatter this peace. I wrapped it around my shoulders and felt renewed.

Hats from the heart

Courtesy of wine me up.

I've made two hats in my life and given them to two of my favorite men.

The first was crocheted for my dad when I was a teenager. I took two shades of blue acrylic yarn and double crocheted back and forth, back and forth and didn't stop because I didn't know how. The result was a tall hat, warm and weird as any Dr. Seuss get-up, and apparently strange enough to be considered hip because my dad once was stopped by another skier wanting to buy the hat off him, right there on the side of the slope.

Courtesy of Linda Conlin.

After creating such a thing, I picked up neither needle nor yarn for more than twenty years. Then, I decided to make my man a hat for the holidays. Again, I went for stripes, but this time wool in charcoal and tan. I'd been knitting it in front of Marcel the entire time and he never asked about it until Christmas Eve.

"What are you making?"

Stupidly, I didn't have a pat answer, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm making a pouch."

"A pouch?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. Well it looks like a hat to me."

"No. It's a pouch."

This time around I thought I knew enough. I knew to think about gauge, how to carry the unused yarn from the inside, and how to bind off. But when Marcel put it on his head it looked like a bowl, a too big bowl. I considered frogging the whole thing and starting with smaller needles, but he refused to hand it over.

Pattern courtesy of brooklyntweed.

"It's a hat for big hair," he said.

I fuss around positioning it whenever he wears it and I notice when someone does a double-take as he walks down the street, but he assures me that he loves the pouch ... er, hat. Then he went and cut his hair.

"Does this mean you're not going to wear the hat?" I asked.

"Nah, I love the hat. It just sits a little lower on my head," Marcel said.

So there they are. My two hats -- too loose, too tall and calling too much attention to themselves -- but, nevertheless, still doing their job of hugging the head.

A cup, a crunch, a crumb

Courtesy of Anders Andermark.

1. Tea. I spent much of the day with a friend and a pot of Earl Gray.

2. Numbers. I found a place to record and track my progress when it comes to novel-growing, muscle-building and consciousness-raising.

3. A cake recipe. This chocolate mousse cake is the bomb; I made it twice this week because it is that good. Straight from the oven, you eat this with a spoon, cracking through the crunchy top and scooping up the luscious, warm insides. The next day you'll need a fork to cut through the cold, fudgy chocolate, so intense and rich, you'll also need another cup of tea.

Gateau au Chocolate by Dance in the Kitchen.

Gateau au Chocolat
Chocolate Mousse Cake

Serves 8

7 ounces bittersweet chocolate
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter
3 eggs
2 tablespoons flour
2/3 cup sugar

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Butter a 9x5x3 inch loaf pan. Warm a kettle of water and keep handy for a bain-marie (a water bath used to cook the cake).

In a double boiler over simmering water, melt chocolate and butter with two teaspoons of water. Remove pan of melted chocolate from double boiler and let cool briefly.

Beat eggs, flour and sugar until light and pale colored. Add melted chocolate and blend well. The mixture will be runny.

Pour batter into the buttered loaf pan and place the pan in a baking dish. Place in oven and pour warm water into the baking dish to a depth of one inch. Check cake after 30 minutes If it's browning too quickly, tent with foil for the last 10 minutes (40 minutes total). The top will be crunchy, but the inside remains very moist.

We're programmable

Courtesy of davidkjelkerud.

Overheard during a game of tag amongst my kids:

"I logged off! I logged off!"

Requested of me by one son during a bedtime story:

"Can you pause for a minute?"

***

Mentally noted after reading Ink Spell's recent post on kids and media overload.

My effort, not futile

"Sisifo" by Tiziano, courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.

I'm reading Albert Camus' "The Myth of Sisyphus" as part of my research for the novel I began late last year. I'm looking for parallels, themes, ways to shape the loosely connected stories that all begin in the desert. I think there's an existential element to these tales, an absurdity or desperateness to the lives they create in this near-dead, empty space.

Camus writes that although "The Myth of Sisyphus" poses mortal problems (suicide), it also is a "lucid invitation to live and to create in the very midst of the desert." The issue isn't the identification of what's absurd, but the response to it, the consequences of it.

"I said that the world is absurd, but I was too hasty. This world in itself is not reasonable, that is all that can be said. But what is absurd is the confrontation of this irrational and the wild longing for clarity whose call echoes in the human heart," Camus writes.

I'm enjoying this, the meander through the dense material, the opaque writing silhouetted against my more simple stories, the hope I carry that this exercise will help me the next time I tug at the tangled tale threads balled up at the base of my neck, for I need blood to flow freely from brain to heart so I may write.

Five things needed to induce sleep in a toddler

Courtesy of Elfleda.

One story
Two breasts filled with milk
Three songs: "Twinkle Star," "You Are My Sunshine" and, finally, the national anthem
Four kisses
Five drinks of water

Then, we begin a cycle that looks something like this, and continues throughout the night:

Which means there's a problem with sleep, or lack thereof, in my house. Maybe he has sleep apnea? You know, when someone stops breathing for a second or two and so wakes up a lot, I suggested to my husband. More like sleep asshole-nea, he replied.

Ursine

/ur-seen/

adjective

My first cub and her ursine hat while sledding on Mount Rose, which has become a yearly trek and measure of time passed.

1. Of or like a bear

Ten years later:

Chaja.

We stuff kids, sleds, hot cocoa, lunch and armloads of boots, jackets, hats and gloves into the car, drive for 45 minutes, trudge up the hill in knee-deep snow while listening to complaints of hunger, exhaustion, cold and the need to pee, and I think: My God, I am a fool. Here I am, another year, and I'm doing this again. Why?

I climb on the back of a sled and hold tight to my daughter. Snow sprays, I scream, a hat flies, so does a boot, and Chaja and I are at the bottom. I stare up at the empty blue sky, gasping, laughing, my heart pounding against my chest, and find my answer.

This year we left my husband and my 2-year-old's jacket at home, but brought extra layers and friends with infectious attitudes, so although the day started out cold and grumpy, it ended on a warm note.

Sam and Max.

Annie.

Shannon.

In want of

Photos by Max Levy.

I feel like the sky today. It's leaden and tired, the clouds soft and cool and heavy as a feather pillow. I want to fall into the sky and sleep for a long time.

All day I wait for the clouds to break open, and about 4:30 p.m. tears splatter the windshield as my daughter and I drive to the grocery store. Inside we buy cans of Italian tomatoes, Satsuma tangerines, chocolate, and a small lemon tart that we eat while watching shoppers dash from their cars and enter the store breathless, brushing rain off their faces. Earlier, I was my own thunderstorm, casting sharp words, papers and stuffed toys about the house, but now I am dull from spent anger and lack of sleep. My 2-year-old is waking five, six, sometimes seven times in the night. I miss my dreams.

Home again.

I pour tomatoes into a pot, add halved onions and butter. The sauce simmers, melting, breaking, collapsing into a velvety sauce, sweet with tomatoes, savory with onion. Forty-five minutes later, a salad is made, pasta cooked, and I scoop out onion and ladle the sauce over noodles. A perfect meal for an imperfect day.

Later still.

The kids watch a movie, my husband returns to his freelance work and I bake the last of the chocolate cookies spiked with peanut butter chips. I sit at our kitchen table and write, but my words sound wooden. I need to sleep uninterrupted by small hands kneading my breasts, small toes digging into my thighs, a small mouth searching, not finding, and so shatters my sleep with dark wails.

I crack the bedroom window, pull the blanket up to my neck and close my eyes. My breath is slow, soft, gray. Outside the wind blows, but there is no sound of rain.

Succor

suhk-er
noun and verb



Our world has so many needs. How will you provide succor?

Noun
1. help, relief, aid, assistance
2. a person or thing that gives relief, help etc.

Verb (used with an object)
1. to help or relieve

A palette for the palate

Two on a night walk.

I like the washed-out colors of winter. The sky's broad brushstrokes of pale blue, pink, yellow and gray, the dark silhouettes of bare trees, the muted greens and rusts. I like the way winter smells of wood fires and oranges, and how the cold air burns the insides of my nose during night walks with my daughter. I like that days lend themselves to bowls of creamy cauliflower soup drizzled with browned butter, tasting as pale as the world outside and toasty as a handmade quilt.

Ivan under his Christmas quilt.

In the bowl:


Cream of cauliflower soup
garnished with brown butter and toasted walnuts

Cream of cauliflower soup
Adapted from a recipe by Top Chef finalist Carla Hall on National Public Radio
Serves 4

1 head cauliflower
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 leeks, white part only, washed and cut into half-moons
1/4 cup white flour
1 quart, plus 1 cup chicken stock
1/2 cup cream
Salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste
Nutmeg

Garnish: Optional but for the browned butter because it's so good.

1/2 cup walnuts, toasted
parsley, chopped
4 tablespoons butter
12 tiny cauliflower florets

Wash and core the cauliflower. Reserve about 12 tiny florets and roast them in the oven at 400 degrees until tender. Roughly chop the remaining cauliflower and set aside. In a pot, heat the butter over medium heat. Add the leeks and cook until soft, but not taking on any color. Sprinkle the flour over the leeks and stir to combine. Gradually whisk in the stock. Bring to a simmer. Add the chopped cauliflower and return to a slow simmer. Season with salt and pepper. Simmer, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon to keep the bottom from sticking or burning until the cauliflower is fork-tender.

Remove the pot from the heat and puree the soup in a blender until silky smooth. Once processed, pour back into the pot. Place the pot over medium heat. Add 1/4 cup of heavy cream and bring to a simmer. If the consistency is too thick, add milk. Adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper. Add in a few sprinkles of nutmeg.

In a small skillet or pot, melt the 4 tablespoons of butter over medium heat. Keep the butter on heat until it turns a nutty brown. Remove from heat and set aside.

Mix the tiny cauliflower florets and the toasted walnuts in a small bowl. Portion the soup into four bowls and top with the garnish. Drizzle with the brown butter, then chopped parsley.