Roast Pork Tenderloin with Pears and Leeks

So far 2012 has been all about simplifying and refocusing. As 2011 came to a close and I reflected on the year that had passed, I realized the extent to which I let myself get sidetracked by concerns that don't ultimately matter. So I'm shifting my focus back to what's most important and real: family, friends, my dogs, work (in no particular order). I've not been on blogs or Twitter or Facebook much (although I am publishing links to this post on the latter two sites), and my Instagram posts are few and far between.

Among the many wonderful results of this social media greyout is that I'm not looking at my phone and its addictive social media apps every minute or two, and I'm freeing myself from some of the associated pitfalls that so easily erode happiness, such as Fear Of Missing Out and The Comparison Trap. I feel clearer, lighter and more content.

Something else that has me contented is spending Sunday afternoons in the kitchen preparing simple, comforting meals to reheat during the week. Roasting has been my cooking method of choice, and dishes such as crispy skinned buttermilk brined chicken, roasted smashed potatoes and pork tenderloin have been just the thing to enjoy at the end of long and busy days.

Roast Pork Tenderloin with Pears and Leeks

Makes 8 to 10 servings

This recipe was passed on to me by a dear friend who is an expert at treating family and friends to fantastic, healthy meals with minimal fuss. This dish is perfectly suited to a Dutch or French oven, but a large cast iron skillet or rimmed baking sheet will do just fine. (If using the latter, brown the tenderloin in a large pan on the stove before transfering it to the baking sheet.) I deviated from the recipe a bit in that I brined my pork tenderloin for 24 hours before roasting it. If I have the time I always brine pork and poultry. If you're new to brining, Cook's Illustrated's method is foolproof.

Ingredients:

1 boneless pork loin roast, about 3.5 pounds, excess fat and silverskin removed 

Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper, to taste

2 Tablespoons olive oil

5 ripe red Anjou pears, or 4 large or 6 small apples, halved lengthwise and seeds removed

4 leeks, white portions only, trimmed, halved lengthwise and rinsed

Directions:

1. Position a rack in the lower third of an oven and preheat to 400°F. Season the roast liberally with salt and pepper. (Tie the roast with kitchen twine if it comes halved lengthwise.)

2. In a 5 1/2-quart (or larger) Dutch oven over medium-high heat, warm the olive oil. Add the pears or apples, cut side down, and cook until browned, about 5 minutes. Transfer to a plate.

3. Add the pork to the pot and brown on all sides, about 8 minutes total. Transfer to a plate.

4. Place the leeks, cut side down, in the pot in a single layer. Set the pork on top of the leeks and place the pears or apples along the sides of the pot, encircling the roast.

5. Roast until an instant-read thermometer inserted into the center of the pork registers 140°F, 45 to 55 minutes.

6. Transfer the pork to a carving board, cover loosely with aluminum foil and let rest for 10 minutes before carving. Transfer the leeks and pears or apples to a platter. Cut the pork into slices and arrange on the platter.

Mornings With the Old Girl

Saturday morning, 6 a.m. Her wet nose nudges my shoulder. Groggy with sleep, it takes me a moment to orient myself. My blurry eyes scan the room: ceiling, wall, morning light streaming through the window. Bedside table, lamp, a nose in my face. Floppy ears. Those soulful, imploring eyes.

I rise from my bed in a swift motion -- my least favorite activity of the day -- and wrestle a white t-shirt over my head.

She beckons me to follow her downstairs, let her out, fill her bowl with kibble. Her hips are cranky, her hind legs stiff with age. Her back paws drag ever so slightly on the carpet, making a scuffing sound like an old lady shuffling around in rubber soled slippers. She looks back to make sure I'm following her lead. Hurry up, mama.

In the kitchen, she dances with excitement as I scoop kibble from the bin and dump it in her bowl. Clink, clink, clink. The kibble bounces against the porcelain. Up on her hind legs, she jumps like a kangaroo, her advanced age temporarily forgotten. Defied.

I pop her daily medications into little pill pockets, brown and squishy and bacon scented. Drool pours from her mouth in anticipation of her morning treats. Boing, boing, boing. Again, she dances.

The kitchen floor is cold under my bare feet and I shiver. I put the kettle on and take a mug from the cupboard. Tea.

She shadows me as I go to work making breakfast in the tiny kitchen. 

"Excuse me," I say brightly, and she moves aside so that I can reach into the cabinet for the skillet. "Excuse me," I say again in a singsong voice, and she moves from in front of the refrigerator so I can get the eggs, butter, berries.

"Pardon me." She moves again and again as I move around the kitchen, all four steps of it.

She settles at my feet in front of the stove. Crack, plop, whisk, pour. I stir and swirl the eggs ever so gently over the flame. The toast pops up from the toaster and I slide the skillet to a rear burner on the stove. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Butter, knife, bread.

I slice berries into a bowl, portion the eggs onto a plate and crumble sea salt flakes between my fingers and onto the eggs. The sound reminds me of the noise at the beginning of a record, after the needle drops.

Elbows on the counter, I tuck in to the eggs and sip my tea. The old girl is at my feet, alert for any morsels that might come her way.

I move to the sink behind me (turn, step) and wash my plate. Warm mug in my hands, I take my tea to the sofa where the old girl hops up onto her blanket. She settles next to me, groaning with relief as she sinks into the cushions.

Feet up on the coffee table, mug in one hand, I scratch and pet her muzzle with the other, my fingers tracing her cheeks where teeth have been extracted. The recesses make her face look older, wan.

I twirl her ears in my hand and run my fingers through her fur, now more taupe than grey. It is soft and worn like a wool rug after years of foot traffic.

As has so often been the case this year, when I look into her eyes I see my mother in her distant gaze. And, as usual, the tears come easily and my heart catches in my chest.

These mornings are a lingering goodbye, a meditation on impermanence. Time is measured and fleeting. And yet. These mornings, time seems to slow a little.