All posts filed under: condimentia

not your mother's haroset, on a raisin & a porpoise

how i look

I am on my way to my high school reunion. I am hedging around saying which one it is, and it occurs to me suddenly how silly that is. It occurs to me how silly a lot of things are, when tectonic plates (real ones) and juggled plates (figurative ones) and other grand-scale matters are uppermost in my mind. I mean, lots of crazy bad crap is happening, at home and abroad. So the fact that I get to be 47 years old, and have three decades since high school to gaze back on—that suddenly seems like a silly thing to get squirrelly about. When I was plotting my course towards this occasion, I had to factor in that I’d be traveling quite a while before I got to set my bag down, and a lot of that on foot. Carrying several outfit possibilities around was kind of out of the question.  My default “feel more devil-may-care about how I look” setting is at the point on the dial marked “badass boots.” But I knew …

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Dill pesto from A Raisin & A Porpoise

frond feelings

I don’t know what all of you have gotten done the last few weeks, but the dill’s sure been busy.  It has self-seeded in a good portion of my parents’ garden, and it’s about as high as an elephant’s eye, and I picked a whole big lot of it, knowing full well I had nothing to mince it up into (it’s mad tasty added in copious amounts to spinach, but I had no spinach). I just got kind of mesmerized by its abundance, and the waxy feel of the leaves and the bracing aroma as I picked.  Then all of a sudden I had a huge handful of dill, whose abundance I did not want to waste. Dill pesto!  There’s an idea.  Fearing it would be too aggressively dilly on its own, I threw some lettuce in to mellow things out. In a matter of moments, I had some glorious green goo. There are lots of things this would be good with, and for, and on. I imagined styling it up for you on a …

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zing me a song/aromatic salt from A Raisin & A Porpoise

salt of the dearth

One rotten thing about modernity is how the word ‘friend’ has been pilloried and debased.  Oh, I friended her but she unfriended me and now he’s my friend but not my FRIEND-friend–we’re just, you know, friends.  Air-quote, Air-quote. I love my friends.  One unfailing measure, to me, of friendship–the real kind, minus the air quotes and other paraphernalia–is whether I know something about what or how this person likes to eat, and vice versa.  It’s a marker of having spent some time, paid some attention.  Loves cilantro, hates cilantro, allergic to potatoes, can’t stomach white food, will not eat citrus with a meal, dessert first, no green salad in the winter, not crazy about squash.  Those are some of my peeps. Once I have some curious little fact of this nature to file away, I realize me and this person have moved past the opening event. A couple of benefits of friends (not the same as friends with benefits, so don’t you start): they expose you to new things to eat, and they often lead …

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