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unruly tabbouleh, with red quinoa

taming my unruly thoughts

When I was a tot, we lived close enough to Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn that my childhood was seasoned with an abundance of middle-eastern food: baba ganoush, spinach pies, hummus.  This was back in the Pleistocene Era, before hummus became what it is today: as ubiquitous as spackle, and half as tasty, and as subject to crimes of cultural collision as any number of other airport foods (chipotle-sundried tomato hummus, anyone?).  The hummus of my childhood came from Sahadi’s, and it was creamier and more salty and lemony than any other hummus I’ve since had, and I have never been able to recreate it.  In Sam Sifton’s book about Thanksgiving, which I highly recommend you read before Turkey Time looms again, he says that one thing that separates restaurant cooks from their home counterparts is a willingness to use way more butter and salt than people are comfortable using under their own roofs.  I think he has a point there, but I can take a pretty free hand with the salt, lemon and olive oil …

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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!

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leap into the start of something

get started with me

The main obstacle I face in getting started on something (and maybe this is just me here, but bear with me) is the feeling that so much [time has gone by, or back-log has accumulated, or stands in my way] that there is no point starting now.  If only I had been disciplined enough to be handling it all along, or at least to have started earlier, then maybe…. I can feel this way any old time, but without a doubt I feel it round about the 9th of January every year.  “I Guess That Ship Has Sailed” Day, let’s call it.  The day when you realize that it’s more than a week into the new year and the green-juice/exercise/file-a-pile/clean the sink/stretch more/bitch less/write in my journal every day plan is already showing definite signs of weakness in its struts. Or maybe it has a misplaced ignition key. A wise therapist said to me once, OK, so let’s pretend this is a friend who has come to you to say this (instead of just, you …

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