Month: January 2013

I know what you are thinking

Are you thinking about opening the borders of your mind and heart? Listen here. Are you thinking about making a little fuss over a supper that might possibly cause you to dance around with happiness? Take a look at this. Are you thinking about injecting a little tropical tang into January’s icy siege? Have a peek here, though if you can see your breath outdoors where you are, you should consider first if a good produce market and the willingness to spend about ten bucks on fruit are within today’s frame of reference; otherwise, consider it food porn. Are you thinking it would be nice to have something like a rubber ducky (who, as you may recall, made bath-time so much fun), but one who earned his keep? The Italians have it covered. I’m off for a far-away week looking after a loved one.  Be well!

FacebookTwitterGoogle+PinterestGoogle GmailShare
meyer lemon caramel

the use of today

Been a bit quiet around here!  My apologies.  It isn’t exactly as though I haven’t been making useful food.  I am back in a period of jam-packed days and short trips away from my family, so I have been cranking out useful food galore, like pots of beans (this time with some sofrito which I found waiting like buried treasure in the deep recesses of the freezer) and big stews and little bowls of hardboiled eggs which are keeping us fed, to a degree, but are not particularly photogenic or terribly inspiring items to write about. Sometimes, if it’s terrible inspiration one seeks, one has to look a little ways beyond useful nutrition.  I was nudged out of my kitchen doldrums today by the gift of some tired lemons; maybe it was our compatible states of not-dewy-freshness that moved me.  What happened is that my friend René caught me fondling some of the Meyer lemons on her counter while she was making me some tea.  I thought her back was turned, it’s true, but I …

FacebookTwitterGoogle+PinterestGoogle GmailShare
kale pesto

handy device

Years ago, my oldest sister lived in a loft apartment all the way west on Canal Street in New York.  It was notable for many things: fabulousness, for one, and–in a city famous for instant, round-the-clock gratification–its remarkable inconvenience.  No market on the corner for the forgotten lemon or baking powder.  No restaurant mere steps away for a quick take-out (or eat-in) meal.  No hopping casually onto the subway to dash here or there.  And the elevator–this was a place to grow old.  “This elevator takes FOREVER,” residents and visitors would say, to one another if we were together and to ourselves if we were alone, performing those special yah-yah-yadda-yah faces and head waggles that indicate that something is tedious and we’re not especially patient with it.  The famously slow elevator was a perpetually engaging topic of conversation. One day I got on the FSE with my brother-in-law.  I prepared to say something knowing about how long the ride would be. “One minute,” he said, before I could say anything. I glanced at him. “It …

FacebookTwitterGoogle+PinterestGoogle GmailShare