Sharing stories of food stories we love.
I stand with the refrigerator door open, lazily surveying the contents. There’s a very old rind of Parmesan in the crisper drawer (who put that there?!). A bag of baby spinach threatens to wilt, droopily, from the corner shelf. I take note of a handful of pistachios, a half-gallon of milk, and a lemon. A few strips of bacon are nestled up top next to a carton of eggs.
I reach for the most delicate-looking ingredients, the ones about to take a turn towards overly ripe and ready.
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Patience is a trait I could practice more. My willpower is pretty strong, so I'm aces at making myself wait for things when I need to, I just don't like doing it. I gulp my tea (a habit of my mother's, is that genetic?), even though I want it to last. I skip through the entire wine section of Food & Wine every month, even though I think it would probably be edifying to read. I nearly lost my mind at my last trip to the DMV, in Flushing, when I took my seat in a big, airless room packed with bodies only to realize my ticket read 748 and we were on 613.
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Let's have a quick chat tonight. Specifically, let's talk about salads.
If you've been following along with me on Instagram (of course you are, why miss out on such wit?!), it's possible that you think I subsist on large slices of chocolate layer cake and cookie crumbs.
That is decidedly not the case. I do love a good dessert, and I do have a wicked sweet tooth.
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You may be wondering where I have been. You may be sitting at your dining room table at this very moment thinking: "listen up girl, I have been JONESING for some cake, and it is your job to provide me with it, and you've let me down!"
I'm so sorry; I really have let you down. Does it help if I tell you that I have been gallivanting about the East Coast, eating warm baguettes from the King Arthur bakery in Vermont and playing with my new niece who is getting wonderfully more chubby with each passing minute (by playing, obviously I mean squeezing her thighs and singing her terribly off-key Josh Ritter and John Denver songs)?
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Can I ask you a question? Do you often cook fancy meals when it's just you? No judgment either way. (After all, I consider a bowl of well-buttered popcorn a culinary accomplishment of its own sort.) I'm curious. Often I think "oh, that's too much trouble" about making a portion for just one. But really, more delicious food doesn't necessarily equal more difficult cooking.
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