Straight to the Top

I am not privy to the produce world’s inner pecking order.  But if I were, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that potatoes were the plain Janes of the lot.  While gourds sashay around in their vibrant colors (think butternut) and artichokes wow with their spicy, layer-y outfits and chard and kale splay out into bouquet-ish bundles, potatoes—with their mottled brown jackets—fade into the background.  Some potato varieties—the jewel-toned purple ones or the luxe yukon golds—might get a second look, but the good old russets, I’m guessing, are the last to get picked for a schoolyard pick-up game.

This recipe aims to shake up that vegetable social hierarchy.  This recipe will send the baking potato straight to the top.  Like the ugly duckling morphing into the swan, if you will.  Because this recipe is undeniably luxurious and incredibly delicious.

Some Football Game

I have to say, I’ve been enjoying the recent football hiatus in my (Kevin’s) life.   Weekends are so productive!  The TV barely flickers to life for an entire Sunday afternoon (let alone Monday night, Thursday night and and and)!  And the Five-Five-Five-Dollar-Foot-Long jingle is finally out of my head (until now, whoops)!  But it’s come to my attention that there’s some football game this Sunday.  I believe they’re calling it the Super Bowl.

I’ll Do it Myself

I spent good chunks of the first two weekends of January working, which, in this economy, is not really something to complain about.  So I won’t gripe about the work.  Instead, I’ll whine about the lunch.  Because I was otherwise occupied, most of the lunches were delivered.  And while you can’t beat the convenience of sandwich delivery on a subzero Chicago Saturday, I swear to you: the order was never right.  My reactions ranged from unattractive gagging noises when I discovered a sandwich slopped with mayo, something akin to a temper tantrum when another sandwich came with coleslaw instead of chips, tears when I opened a sack to find a white bread-ed sandwich when I’d ordered multigrain, to (worst of all) oh-no-they-didn’t-forget-my-pickle.

So last weekend, when I did not one minute of work (ahhh), I decided that when it came to lunch, I’d do it myself.  Thankyouverymuch.   I started out with beautiful, fresh ingredients: slices from a loaf of burnished whole wheat sourdough; folds of black forest ham the light pink color of a flush cheek; slices of havarti, as lacey as a delicate doiley; peppery leaves of baby arugula; spicy Dijon mustard; kosher salt and fresh cracked pepper; thin slices of juicy bosc pear:

I’m a Morning Person. I Know. I’m Sorry.

You were all so nice to me about this new menu idea.  I’m glad you’re as excited about it as I am.  For the second menu, I gravitated toward breakfast, probably because I love it so much.  I’d go as far as to say it’s in my top three favorite meals of the day.  (Ba-dum-DUM.)  Pulling together this menu has got me thinking about my ideal morning.

There are the weekday mornings that start at a mind-numbing hour and involve tearing myself out of bed and prying my eyelids open.  But lately, they also involve a scoop of yogurt, topped with grapefruit segments and a walnut-and-dried cherry-laced granola—and that’s nothing to sniff at.  There’s aslo a delicious comfort to the routine and a stillness to the dark quiet of our building, our street, our neighborhood, our city at that hour.

Blood Orange Granita

As a kid, I had a thing for magenta. Not red, not pink: magenta. I liked the sound of it, for one thing. Try it now: mahhh-gen-TAH! It also happened to be the hue of my eight-year-old self’s favorite outfit (a stripey multiples number, complete with cumberbund, if you must know). I also adored the book Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, but that’s neither here nor there, is it?

Magenta also features prominently in one of my favorite childhood memories. A distant cousin (second cousin, I think, but really: what does that even mean?) came to visit, decked out in magenta (knowing it was my favorite shade) and took me to the zoo. We rode camels and ate magenta-colored snow cones, and, well, that’s really all it takes for an eight year old, isn’t it?