Sharing stories of food stories we love.
I've written about this soup before, but it merits revisiting. Each time I cook it, I find myself on the phone with my mother, or my sister, or a friend, vehemently explaining how good it is, as if they have nothing better to do than drop everything and make soup.
But if they did, and if you do, I promise you'll thank me.
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There's a mug of tea steaming on the windowsill to my left. It’s quiet in my apartment but cheerful noises from the street outside drift up through my open window on the warm breeze. Children shout from the school next door. A delivery truck rumbles past, then another. A far-away siren, the thump of trash cans hauled to the sidewalk, a girl giggling as she waits in the long line outside the bakery downstairs.
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Last night: New York City. At a bar in Tribeca, I drink two prickly pear margaritas in quick succession; the alcohol heightens my senses. I need food, and I step outside into the night to hail a cab.
Heading uptown: The streets rush past in a blur of neon lights. In mere minutes I speed past dozens of neighborhoods, hundreds of apartments, thousands of people.
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The weather lately feels like a moody teenager, swinging wildly between seasons: a hot, sunny morning one day then a raging rain storm lashing at my windows the next.
In Vermont last week, the air was crisp and cool to match the fall foliage. I drove home by way of the Hudson Valley, spending a few days with friends. I needed a wool hat to counter the chill; we spent the evenings outside in the hot tub, steam rising in the cold air, or camped out drinking wine around the outdoor fire pit. And yet today, buttery sun is pouring in through my windows. I wore a t-shirt to run in Central Park. The clock at Columbus Circle read 72 degrees at 10 AM.
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I went to a wedding on Saturday on a little island off the southwest Florida coast. When the party ended, we piled into an old-fashioned open-air trolley to drive the 10 minutes back to our hotel.
The sky was brimming with stars. Every inch of the blackness overhead was saturated with stars, so many that they almost seemed to blend into shimmering swaths of light. We rode the trolley with the hot, humid night air pressing in on us. The road was dark and quiet, lined with palm trees that loomed above us, black and spiky and tropical-looking.
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