The Table Comes First

I sat around all manner of tables on Sunday.

Each one with its own story.

There's the table—our table—where we shared breakfast. Coffee, toast and a navel orange.

The table where I played hand after hand of Rummy 500 with my grandmother, mother, and uncle.

The Sunday supper table. Encircled by a pacing, but patient dog.

The dining room table where we play(ed) chess.

There is comfort at the table. In my lifetime I will have spent hours-days-weeks-years passing a dish, refilling a glass, sharing a story, listening—at the table.

Composure

The moments seemed to find me. It was nice, the week-end.

Frittata Rapini Cheddar over English, Toasted

I took lunch at 11:30 a.m.

I arranged frittata (which I had cubed) over nests of rapini (which I had chopped). Topped with cheddar.

I waited patiently as my creation spent two rounds in the oven toasting. Round one merely cooked off the chill and started to melt the cheddar. Round two warmed everything to a toasty perfection allowing the cheddar to surrender to a golden-bubbly.

Once it was to my visual satisfaction, I slid the rounds onto a plate. And in moments—with fork and knife—I quickly realized that this was one of the best things I had ever eaten.

And built from leftovers, all.

Lunch. Wednesday.

Today is Wednesday

It promises to be in the low 60's today. A vexing temperature. A strange winter.

And I hesitate to start. To power up. To connect. I would much rather take a walk. A very long walk. In a light jacket. On a quiet street. Filling my lungs with air. Deep, satisfying breathes.

If time permits, I'll bake another loaf. It was very good. It delivered on all that it promised. As did Down the Garden Path and that lovely bunch of flaming purple flowers stretching their necks towards spring.

This reflection slows me. I will keep my endeavors within reach.

I Came Home to a Frittata

Dinner. Monday.

Prepared Simply

Chicken fat. Extra virgin olive oil. Butter.

Fat. Fat. Fat.

Everything was good. But, the potatoes...

"These potatoes are killing me softly." I said.

Red potatoes (quartered and par-boiled—fried in extra virgin olive oil, salted butter, and cracked black pepper)

Prepared simply. All.

Chicken legs (scored and then massaged with extra virgin olive oil, kosher salt, cracked black pepper and parsley before baking)

Garlic (baptised with extra virgin olive oil before wrapping in foil and roasting)

Rapini (sauteed in extra virgin olive oil with slivers of garlic, salt, cracked black and crushed red pepper)

We shared the garlic. Slathering cloves onto bread with a delicate crust prone to shatter if mishandled.

Roberto worked neat while I battled crumbs and greasy fingers. So absorbed, I nearly forgot to drink my glass of wine.

Dinner. Saturday.

Sausage with Green Pepper and Onion

There was a bit of bread left. After the mussels. After the shrimp. Bread left for sausage with green pepper and onion.

I found it necessary to pull out the dijon. For this sausage begged for it. After all, this wasn't the spicy Italian sausage we usually ate. This was a beer boiled (equal parts Miller High Life pony and water) andouille sausage.

I find myself distracted by the memories of that Sunday. The swaths of steam undulating beneath the camera lens. Our full bellies and the sleep that followed.

Tomato Soup

It felt right for tomato soup.

One medium onion (I used yellow), roughly chopped. Two 28 oz. cans tomato, finely milled. A bit of extra virgin olive oil. Salt. Pepper.

A pot.

A wooden spoon.

A low to medium flame.

A room filled with natural light.

When the onion had yielded, laying in a limp perfection, I took care to add the tomato, but found myself stilling making a mess (albeit small).

I Surveyed the floor. Dot...dot...splatter. The cupboard doors. Dot...splatter. Wiping and cleaning until the scene was once again—as it was—before.

Shrimp from Sunday

A pound of shrimp blushing and curling in a puddle of butter, wine, garlic and parsley.

A Pound of Mussels

We were eager. A pot of mussels. A bowl of bread (baguette and leftover biscuits).

Chew. Slow down. It's just us.

The liquor was a sultry blend of butter, wine, parsley, shallot, lemon, and bacon.

We dipped and soaked crusty slices until they were melt in our mouth ready.

Roberto scraped the bottom, pulling up hidden pieces of bacon and shallot, flecked with parsley. A rogue mussel or two. Making up a biscuit bruschetta. His eyes wide. You genius—I thought—I said. I was envious, of course.

Chew.

We'd slow down for a moment. But only for a moment.

A pound of mussels. Sunday.

Simple Biscuits

I was down to the littlest bit of dough. I worried that if I shaped and rolled one more time...

I've been wrong every time the thought has crossed.

The smaller biscuits were a bit rumpled and creased. The larger, smooth and uniform. We'd eat the charming smaller ones with dinner. The larger, with their factory-esque physiques would make for Thursday lunch (biscuits with cheddar).

There were two pans. A half sheet and a quarter. You could say we're full of sheet in this house (insert laughter).

I lined the pans with unbleached parchment which I had to crumple in order for it to lie flat.

The half sheet held the six larger biscuits. The quarter sheet held the four smaller biscuits.

When I had positioned them just so, I brushed the tops with cream.

They baked for 15 minutes at 450° or 500°...I wonder every time which of the two oven thermometers is most accurate.

I took the bowl that housed the 2 cups all-purpose flour, 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder, 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1 1/4 cup heavy cream, and scraped the remaining craggy bits into the trash bin before filling it up with hot soapy water.

The measuring cup and spoons, biscuit cutters, fork and pastry brush all went into the bowl of hot soapy water to soak as well while I scraped and wiped down the counter.

It would be while the biscuits set on the counter to cool that I would embark upon yet another distraction. Making a pot of red for dinner.