January 26, 2009
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:
January 21, 2009
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?
January 20, 2009
I think we’ve come to the point in the winter where you have to grasp at the small bright spots—pin pricks of light on what seems like an inky dark horizon. Take yesterday: Kevin and I took a walk through the neighborhood and marveled at how downright pleasant it was. Sure, we had to pick our way over snow drifts and patches of ice—but the sun was shining and the temperature was in the double-digits. Small victories, but victories, nonetheless.
There are other bright spots to January: the day light slowly but surely lengthens; there are so many good movies out that you could contemplate moving into a theatre near you, subsisting on pocorn alone; it’s a new year, which, this year, comes with a new president. Better than all of these things, though, (except maybe the new president part!) is citrus. Like the friend who knows you better than anyone, it arrives in your darkest hour (or, say, month), just when you need a pick-me-up.
January 17, 2009
I had something of a wheat thin addiction in college. For an entire summer, I am fairly certain I went to the grocery store almost exclusively for those yellow boxes and, well, beer. I’m not proud. But, for the record, we did throw at least a few backyard barbecues and I remember making a fresh salsa (wondering how the heck one removed the little leaves of cilantro from the stems) and helping my friend Louie make ribs (on a industrial size charcoal grill he’d “borrowed” from his fraternity). But, back to the wheat thins.
After college, I became intrigued by all the letters on those wheat thin boxes. And I’m not talking about n-a-b-i-s-c-o. I’m talking about the quadruple-plus-syllabled-words in the ingredients list. I investigated, became icked out and quit wheat thins cold turkey. I miss those salty, crunchy little squares more than I care to admit.
January 11, 2009
I didn’t expect to check one of the New Orleans-inspired recipes off my To Make List this soon. For the biscuits, in particular, I thought I’d be searching for the perfect recipe for weeks. And, frankly, I was kind of looking forward to the buttery, flaky auditions. But they won’t be necessary: this recipe is a clear winner.
As I mentioned last week, one of the first things Kevin and I ate in New Orleans was a big, hot biscuit, served with a foil-wrapped pat of butter at Mother’s. And it was perfect—dunked in my gumbo or standing alone. None of the other biscuits we ate during the trip quite lived up and I was doubtful that I could find a recipe to stand up to the Mother’s memory in my own kitchen.