Apples and Crumble

Apples and Crumble

A crisp.

...

Six apples (peeled and sliced), a teaspoon cinnamon, two tablespoons raw sugar and one generous squeeze of lemon (tossed in a large bowl with clean hands).

Three quarters cup whole wheat flour, one stick unsalted butter, one teaspoon salt, one quarter cup dark brown sugar, one half cup raw sugar (cut until crumbly). One cup old fashioned oats (stirred in and then clump and crumbled more with clean hands).

Eight by eight square dish. Bottom layer, apples. Top layer, crumble (two thirds—one third frozen for another time).

375 degrees. 55 minutes.

The apples sunk. The crumble browned.

The Bell Jar

The Bell Jar

...

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.

From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

...

Side by Side

Side by Side

Deli

...

"How many...one?" The owner of the deli asked?

"Three." I replied.

But I had overestimated.

I clutched the three baguettes, still warm from the oven. Roberto paid, and we made our way back home.

...

Blood Oranges and Fennel

...

Blood oranges and a bulb of fennel. A transition course. Something to cleanse the pallet. Side by side. Together, but not. Some might take blood orange. Some might take fennel. If you're like me, you'll take both.

I peeled and sliced. Dabbed away excess liquid and layered. Covered and chilled.

...

Into the Evening

...

It was ten past one by the time our heads hit the pillow. We fell right to sleep. Exhausted from a day of chores and prep. Cooking. Eating. Drinking. Laughing.

I was rinsing some dishes when I noticed the conversation in the next room bounce and reverberate until my ears were pierced with high volume.

I looked over at Roberto. "I guess they don't need us." I said smiling, trying to contain my laughter.

"I guess not." Roberto laughed.

Roberto cut the string away from the pork roast in preparation for slicing while the pan gravy reheat over a low flame. I proceeded to dress the salad.

...

Sunday

...

A quiet Sunday morning. Scones. Whole wheat maple (because whole wheat makes them good—better for us) with pecan. Redemption from an evening of excess...Dessert excess. Cannoli (half for me, half for Roberto) and a slice of homemade chocolate cake (two uneven layers rehabbed with a heavy dose of chocolate frosting).

Yes, redemption from a scone and coffee.

I hope Monday morning redemption tastes this good.

5:59 a.m.

5:59 a.m.

Waking

...

My hand hits the alarm. The room is dark. I peel the blankets back and slowly push myself up. My legs swing sleepily over the edge of the bed. My feet hit the cold hardwood floor. I stand. My eyes adjusting. I turn and pull the blankets over the warmth of where I just lay.

I'm waiting for it.

Amazing Grace...

The church bells from a block away ring with song. The same song morning after morning. I walk the mile, the morning mile, to the bathroom.

...

Freckled Bananas

...

You'll make a fine banana bread. Soon. Very soon. Whole wheat. Virgin olive oil. Walnuts.

...

Six Days a Week

...

He pours. I pour. The pasta hits the collander. The water cascades. A flush of heat. Our glasses and the window fog. Reaching...reaching...the petals tense towards the steam that rises. The orphan orchid on the window's sill suckles at De Cecco's breast.

...

One More

...

One more day of work. The week's end. I silently egress from the city. It is too late to turn back when I have remembered that I have forgotten the grocery list.

Long Winter Days

Long Winter Days

Whole Wheat Oatmeal Coconut Chocolate Chip Cookies

De Cecco

Tubetti in a Soup of Puréed Mirepoix and Chicken Broth

Bouchons au Thon

Cold Pasta Salad

Hours of TNG

I'm looking forward...Leftover lasagna reheated in a pan over a low flame. Then salad. Slices of warmed Italian boule drizzled with extra virgin olive oil (maybe a sprinkle of sea salt and oregano). Nuts. Espresso. Dark Chocolate (85%).

But that's just for dinner.

I'm looking forward...Homemade egg salad on thin slices of that very same Italian boule. Utz potato chips. Grapefruit segments.

But that's just for lunch.

I'm looking forward...Toasted sesame seed bagel with salted butter. Slices of Gala. Hot coffee with milk (and Roberto takes sugar).

But that's just for breakfast.

I'm looking forward...Friends and family around the dinner table. Laughing. Eating. Drinking.

But that's just the weekend.

I'm looking foward...