Amuse-bouche for Two

Poached Eggs in Tomato Sauce

2012-01-27T07:54:00.005-05:00

I devoured, straight from the pan with the most logical utensil, a spoon. No bread.

A simple preparation. A few scoops of leftover tomato sauce into the smallest of pans. While the cold burned off I cracked two eggs into a bowl. When the sauce sang its gentle song I poured the eggs in, dead center. A sprinkle of salt. A grind of pepper.

It wasn't long before I was turning off the flame and dusting the top with parmesan and parsley.

I looked forward to breaking the yolk, letting it—allowing it—for a brief moment to run with the sauce.

And I imagined myself and Roberto in a cafe, someplace—Berlin—Paris—Rome—engaging in such a culinary endeavor after an evening of drink and discussion with like-minded friends. Steam rising from tiny cups of strong coffee mingling with the haze of cigarette smoke, sweat, and sleepy gazes.

It seems I've let my mind wander. Again.

The Last to Know

2012-01-25T20:37:00.006-05:00

"by color"

"Wednesday loaf"

"just bread"

"eggs poached in marinara"

...

Instagram: pickling

...

I was intrigued. Take a picture. Apply a filter. Write a caption. Upload.

A continuation of thought in a different space.

Here are four beats from January 25 with a filter which they call "Earlybird".

Perception

2012-01-25T08:11:00.004-05:00

I find myself focusing in on the flaws.

What Was

2012-01-24T08:00:00.002-05:00

A Sunday supper for two.

We ate and napped.

When hunger struck again, some six hours later, we shared grapes and a banana.

I'm always hungry.

A Loaf of Bread

2012-01-23T07:56:00.003-05:00

I had contemplated ironing the tablecloth but there was bread to be made.

...

The dough had quadrupled in size before I pulled it from the bowl and shaped it into a loaf. Tucking under the ends. Pinching the seams. Generously oiling the tin.

Waiting was not a problem. I would let it rise a second time. As high as it might.

I tucked myself into the sofa with knitting needles and a thin weight, medium chestnut yarn.

As the hours slipped under the setting light, I set down my work, shifting attention back to the risen loaf.

It would be close, but I was certain that it would be cool enough to slice in time for supper.

This would be the case.

The Lilt

2012-01-21T09:24:00.004-05:00

I took deliberate steps. My head down. The umbrella protecting me from cold and rhythmic taps.

The sidewalk alternating between slick and crunch. This block-long walk to the mailbox felt like a journey.

Once home I would prepare coffee, boil water for oatmeal, and segment a grapefruit.

Saturday.

Friday Morning Compositions

2012-01-20T08:22:00.002-05:00

He does wonderful things like lining the crisper drawer with a paper bag so that things stay tidy.

...

A relic (not the ceiling fan) from the house before it was our home. Handcrafted.

...

My mother had packed two crab cakes and coleslaw into the lunch bag and sent us on our way.

I've Been Wearing This Hat

2012-01-19T08:01:00.002-05:00

In the gray mornings of winter it no longer looks a granny blue.

With size 6.0 bamboo circular needles I cast on 80 stitches and then for six rows I knit four, purled four.

I then knit for five and half inches.

From here, I decreased.

Knit six, knit two together.

Knit five, knit two together.

Knit four, knit two together.

Knit three, knit two together.

Knit two, knit two together.

Yes that sounds right. Though, at some point I had to knit off of the circular needles onto double sided needles. I couldn't begin to say where. Only, that when the times comes, you'll know.

Once on double sided needles I kept knitting two together in the round until I was left with only a few stitches in which to finish.

I thread a rather large knitting needle and did my very best.

After a Day

2012-01-18T17:21:00.002-05:00

It slipped away...almost.

It was the light, not my hands. The camera is sticky from garlic.

I really must get back to it.

Much Needed

2012-01-17T07:52:00.002-05:00

It seemed like a lot at the time, but in retrospect it was only just enough to keep everything else in balance.

A pot to cook quinoa.

A pot to cook green lentils.

A pot to boil rapini.

A pot to melt butter and chocolate.

In that order.

A salad of quinoa and green lentils. Salt. Pepper. Extra virgin olive oil. That is all.

Brownies. It's been a while, friend.

...

When I walked into the house it smelled of buttery mushrooms. Warm and meaty. He had been busy all afternoon prepping for dinner.

The rapini stood at the back of the stove, dressed in garlic, crushed red pepper, extra virgin olive oil and salt.

Tonight we'll layer it onto slices of bread with cheese.

I'm getting ahead of myself...

Coconut Oat Scones

2012-01-16T09:38:00.004-05:00

Sunday started with scones. In the round. Brushed with cream and finished with raw sugar.

I kept my fingers crossed over the substitutions.

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour became one cup all-purpose flour, 1/2 cup oats.

3/4's cup pecans became 3/4's cup unsweetened coconut.

The dough was wetter than usual, but I had no fear, for the counter was dusted with flour and more stood in-waiting.

The oven was preheated (400 degrees). The sheet pan was lined (unbleached parchment).

A few kneads to keep the stickiness in check and I was ready to cut-out.

one...two...three...four...five...six...seven...eight.

20 minutes to bake. Just enough time to wash dishes.

...

Recipe: Coconut Oat Scones

Combine in medium bowl:

1 cup all purpose flour

1/2 cup oats

3/4 cup unsweetened coconut

2 tablespoons raw sugar

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

Add to dry ingredients:

1 cup heavy cream

2 tablespoons maple syrup

Stir with fork until just combined and then turn out onto floured work surface. Knead dough 6 to 8 times, dusting with all-purpose if dough is too wet.

Pat out to desired thickness and cut-out to your scone shape preference.

Brush tops with heavy cream and dust with raw sugar.

Bake in 400 degree oven for 20 minutes.

Pizza

2012-01-15T10:02:00.002-05:00

I had just burned my bottom lip, but no matter. I would wince in pain and savor the bite.

To keep things authentic and simple, he simply milled a few tomatoes, added in a bit of extra virgin olive oil, garlic, salt, pepper, dried oregano, and parsley. Raw, it was placed atop the stretched dough.

I diced red onion and half a ball of mozzarella.

What this pizza needs is some fresh basil, I said.

We discussed possibly buying a bit of dried since we were well out of basil season. We were almost out of oregano, too.

And the sheet pan turned out to be the perfect vessel. Allowing for an even bake. Browning the bottom to our liking.

And perhaps the best part, the cold, marinated anchovies we placed atop each slice before taking that first bite.

I don't think I'll be able to eat pizza any other way, ever again.

Saturday Morning

2012-01-14T09:35:00.001-05:00

Watering the soon-to-bloom orchid, filling the butter dish, and grinding coffee.

Some Kind of Wonderful

2012-01-13T09:11:00.003-05:00

12, January

2012-01-12T07:59:00.002-05:00

If it hadn't been for the rain and fog, the light would have been edging up on adequate.

Sigh.

I can see through the kitchen window, the skyline of row homes behind us. So crisp against the gray. Telephone wires sway like jumprope. Television antenna swivel like weathervanes.

It seemed like a good morning for banana bread.

Yesterday Was Tuesday

2012-01-11T07:53:00.003-05:00

I had the small pot on to boil and sauce simmered on low in a shallow pan.

He asked what kind of pasta.

Short, but long short.

Ravioli?

Really? Ravioli?

It's Tuesday.

We'll have to pull out the big guns.

The small pot would not do. While the ravioli would fit, we worried that the water temperature would not recover as quickly as we would like.

I pulled the larger pot from the cabinet and set it into the sink. I poured the already boiling water from the smaller pot in, and filled it the rest of the way with tap.

The sauce tastes good.

It did taste good. Half a shallot, minced. One clove of garlic, minced. A good bit of crushed red pepper. A mix of extra virgin and virgin olive oil. One 28 oz can tomatoes, milled. Parsley.

I let the minced and crushed bits soften over a low flame before adding in the tomato. In no time, it began to simmer and bubble. A constant eye. A bit of stirring. Salt and a healthy pinch of chopped parsley.

It is good.

It was always good when we made it this way.

The ravioli takes four to six minutes.

Forty six minutes?

Four to six.

Spinach and cheese ravioli from the pasta man (Cavanna Pasta). We had stocked up before the farmers market closed for the season. Cheese. Spinach and cheese. Beef and spinach. All postage in size. All delicious. Made with few ingredients, all whole.

We were in for a treat. It was after all, Tuesday.

On This Kitchen Morning

2012-01-10T08:16:00.002-05:00

I can hear the clock. A constant reminder of where I should be. I look over my shoulder while my fingers start and stop. I look down at the keyboard. I look back over my shoulder at the clock.

It's Tuesday morning.

Finding Her at My Age

2012-01-09T09:30:00.005-05:00

My Grandmother at 39

3:35 p.m.

2012-01-08T08:00:00.003-05:00

I analyzed the amount of ground coffee left and then contemplated grinding more. But, I did not feel like grinding more. I would have to find a pot small enough, yet big enough.

I felt like Goldilocks .

This pot's too big.

This pot's too small.

This pot's just right.

While the coffee came up, I remembered that the pot I had chosen had a stiff hinge which would make lifting the lid to survey progress challenging. I'd have to rely on instinct. It was with great relief that I found said instinct unimpaired, and I pulled the pot from the flame at just the right moment.

As I poured the hot liquid over a bit of milk in the tiniest of mugs, I heard the faintest of stirrings upstairs.

I'm Letting the Dust Settle

2012-01-06T11:00:00.002-05:00

I miss the afternoon coffee with small bites of Danish butter cookies. The hours of knitting. So intensely focused, yet relaxing.

Being back to work this week leaves me feeling heavy with withdrawal.

I look forward, though. Forward to the weekend. I'm thinking of making a cassoulet.

To Keep the Pepper from the Salt

2012-01-05T07:44:00.007-05:00

It was my mother's idea. To pass the china down to me. The china that was passed down to her. Delicate china that will break if the slightest misstep.

I took such a misstep.

But these things happen.

We pulled the china from the newsprint and ran the water until hot. With soapy sponge we washed, then rinsed, and set to dry.

The following day I stacked neatly on the dining room table. Saucers. Plates. Cups. Bread plates. Bowls. Platters, and the like.

Made in England.

It made me wonder how ever did they make the trip? So delicate. So prone to a misstep.

The set was not complete, though. There had been many missteps before.

We emptied two plastic containers from the upstairs hall closet. Retrieved old newsprint from the basement, and made quick work of rewrapping, nesting, and securing the china.

Everything was put away.

And then on a day where I scrubbed the house from head to toe with white vinegar and lavender, I took notice of the pepper sitting atop the salt container.

The pepper flecks. The inevitability of the flecks falling from the chamber onto the lid of the salt container after each use.

Well, I was tired of it. Tired of laying the grinder on it's side, after a good shake. Rinsing the lid of the salt container and then placing the grinder back atop, only to see a fleck. Just one. Enough to get my goat.

I decided then and there that I would remedy this for good.

I went to one of the plastic containers and lifted the lid. I found a small dish. Could it be a finger bowl? I did not know. It would do. And it did.

No more rinsing the salt container lid to remove flecks of pepper. No more lifting the grinder from the salt container lid just to retrieve salt. I had made the kitchen infinitely more efficient—in a way—I guess.

You Can Never Have Too Many Hats

2012-01-04T08:07:00.007-05:00

It really does feel as if one door has been shut. And, another door, opened.

It Looks Like a Granny Blue

2012-01-03T08:15:00.004-05:00

It's been a blur, mostly.

Afternoon espresso bookended by hours of knitting. Persistence and hats.

One day I scrubbed the house head to toe with white vinegar and lavender. It felt fresh and new leaving my mind to flood with this and that. Ideas yet to take shape.

A Knit Hat in Stockinette Stitch

2011-12-22T07:59:00.004-05:00

I wonder if now I'll put more effort into baking cookies.

I just needed to finish this one. Even if it curled at the end because I used a straight stockinette stitch.

I've finished hats before, but they all reside in a misfit hat drawer. Too small. Too tall. Too wide. The color's all wrong. I should have frogged them all.

I decided to close the book. Use my own calculations. Rely on instinct. When in doubt. I went with my gut.

100% wool. It felt good in my hands. And the bamboo needles. Always.

I'll admit to a moment of terror as I went from circular to doubled sided, to finish. There was good deal of breath holding. Gulping. I may have even knit with one eye shut, my face in a horrible contortion.

So back to, I just needed to finish this one. I'll frog until the bison comes home. I don't mind.

I was beginning to think that my days of knitting were over. So many ill-starts. So many grand ideas. Too many at a time. I wanna do this. I wanna do that. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I still yearn for the day I produce the perfect hat. The perfect scarf. In the perfect stitch. In the perfect color...

The Cinnamon Bread Recipe

2011-12-21T08:13:00.007-05:00

We enjoyed our milk bread, sliced and then dipped into an egg, milk, cinnamon mixture. Fried gently over the thinnest skim of butter on a Sunday morning.

We poured real maple syrup over the slices and found ourselves—our stomachs—growing full with each delicious bite.

With this knowledge it was realized that the cinnamon bread made some weeks earlier would have made an even more scrumptious toast, made french.

...

Cinnamon Bread

...

Step One

In a mixer bowl combine 2 1/4 teaspoons active dry yeast and three tablespoons warm tap water.

In a small pot, melt five 5 tablespoons unsalted butter. Once the butter is melted add 1 cup whole milk.

Add the milk/butter mixture to the yeast/water mixture.

To that, add 3 tablespoons sugar, 1 large egg, and 1 teaspoon salt.

Mix until combined (about a minute, using elbow grease and a wooden spoon OR the paddle attachment of your stand mixer).

...

Step Two

Add 2 cups all-purpose flour and mix until just combined.

If you used the paddle attachment, remove it and replace with the dough hook.

...

Step Three

Add 2 cups more, all-purpose flour, and knead with dough hook for 10 minutes at low-medium speed.

...

Step Four

Oil a large bowl with olive oil.

Set dough to proof in oiled bowl, oiling the dough as well.

Allow dough to proof, covered with plastic wrap, for 1 1/2 hours in a warm place (bay windows with full sun are perfect for this).

...

Step Five

While dough is proofing, mix 1/4 cup sugar and 1 tablespoon cinnamon together in a small bowl and melt 2 tablespoons unsalted butter.

...

Step Six

Roll out proofed dough to an 8" x 18" rectangle.

Brush with melted butter and dust with sugar/cinnamon mixture.

Roll up dough tightly, starting at 8" side of rectangle.

Pinch together all seems.

Place seam side down in oiled 9x5 loaf pan.

...

Step Seven

Cover and let rise for 1 1/2 hours more (preferably in same spot) until dough has blossomed up higher than rim of loaf pan (you'll know it when you see it).

...

Step Eight

Preheat oven to 375 degrees (I hope you have an oven thermometer).

Whisk together one egg and a pinch of salt.

Brush proofed loaf with egg wash.

...

Step Nine

Bake 40-45 minutes (centered on middle rack) until a glossy golden brown.

...

Step Ten

Allow to cool completely before slicing and eating.

What I See

2011-12-20T08:24:00.003-05:00

Particulars

2011-12-19T07:50:00.004-05:00

A Christmas decoration.

I forgot I had started to knit that. Was it knit two, purl two?

Finally, a descent bag of clementines. Cuties are not made for kids.

A case of pasta, because (fill in the blank).

Three small banana breads.

And, being mesmerized by wild turkey's hatching.

One Day Last Week

2011-12-16T07:53:00.005-05:00

I believe it was Friday. Yes, it was.

I brought home a recipe. I carelessly didn't wait for the butter to come to room temperature. I didn't add the tablespoon of orange juice required when adding in extras (one cup chopped walnuts and one cup bittersweet chocolate chips).

None of that mattered. They were delicious.

Basic Whole Grain Cookies

There will be more cookies today, tomorrow, and the next (I like using serial commas).

I'm thinking these this afternoon...I'll substitute the vegetable oil with olive oil, I think.

Oh me, I really should stick with my original cookie plan.

Milk Bread

2011-12-14T09:18:00.003-05:00

Thinking Too Much

...

The bright red from the inside cover. It's the last thing I look at before sleep. Could it be? Pantone 032? And, the cover. Reflex Blue and Pantone 032? Perhaps.

I think too much.

But then I thought about The Joy of Cooking. Could it be? Reflex Blue and Pantone 032? Again?

Stop thinking about Pantones, I thought.

I thought about how those two colors, specifically, were very popular in the early days of the 21st century. In my job.

I think too much.

The print coordinator always needed, rather, the printer always needed a few extra days for Reflex Blue. It takes longer to dry for some reason.

...

Milk Bread

...

I thought about the milk bread. How I had sliced it and placed it into the freezer for future use. French toast use.

It tastes like a biscuit, he had said.

It does. It's biscuit bread, I had said.

Milk bread is biscuit bread. It will make for a very nice french toast. We agreed.

Roberto remarked on the crust. How it wasn't as dark as the cinnamon loaf.

I explained that milk bread (biscuit bread), required a butter wash. I had used an egg wash on the cinnamon bread. It was beautiful. Glossy and deep brown.

It's the same recipe used for the cinnamon bread from The Joy of Cooking, I had explained.

He looked vexed.

They do that. For the cinnamon bread recipe, they'll say 'See Milk Bread Recipe' and then they'll modify it with additional instructions for cinnamon bread, I had explained further.

He looked satisfied with the explanation, enlightened.

You can't go wrong with Joy, I said.

...

Procrastination

...

So, did you mail off the Christmas cards yet? He asked.

Not yet...

A Different Sunday

2011-12-11T15:58:00.002-05:00

When he woke up well, I was happy.

It was supposed to be a day of homemade chicken noodle soup and rest. Tissues. Tea.

So, with a second wind, I came downstairs and prepared for breakfast. Oranges. I'd warm up scones. We'd make coffee.

Planning things in my head. Looking forward to the morning shuffle under morning light and that sleepy quiet that cushions the city on a Sunday.

But, before all of that, we had to get some provisions.

I retrieved our knit hats. The reusable bags. We made our way to the market.

Three dozen eggs. Four loaves of bread. Garlic. Ravioli from the pasta man. That was all. And, a pound of coffee. That was all.

Back at the car, he asked if I wanted to get a coffee.

Sure.

It had been forever and a day since we'd gone to the coffee shop. Forever and a day.

I thought about the oranges that were sitting on the counter ready to be wedged. I thought about the scones and the coffee yet to be brewed.

Then I thought about chocolate croissants and coffee at the coffee shop. A nice change of pace.

Eggs Over Fork Mashed Ceci

2011-12-09T07:52:00.003-05:00

Other than eggs over something, I had no plan, really.

I coated a small pan with extra virgin olive oil and while it warmed over a low flame I retrieved the ceci.

It looked sad and cold, sitting in the container. I knew it would cool the pan immediately, but there would be a moment when my hand wouldn't be affected by the heat. A moment I'd be able to mash the ceci with a fork. Some, anyway. Texture.

I rinsed the bowl and brought it back to the stove. I cracked two eggs into the bowl. I mashed the ceci with a fork. I salted and peppered. I flicked the pan, flipping the ceci.

It sizzled. Crackled. Browned.

And then I poured the eggs into the pan. Right on top. They spread and settled. Salt. Pepper. Lid. Wait.

Steam and sizzle.

When the eggs had set, I turned off the flame.

I slid the concoction into a bowl and placed it at my spot at the table. A napkin. A fork. A glass of water.

I cut into the eggs over fork mashed ceci. It was firm and almost in need of a knife. For the ceci had latched onto egg and crisped to a perfect golden.

I knew there would be a crunch and, a nutty, savory, eggy finish. There was.

It hadn't looked like much, but it had exceeded all my expectations.

No, Thursday

2011-12-08T10:16:00.002-05:00

I had imagined it differently.

Cinnamon Bread

2011-12-05T07:57:00.010-05:00

Maybe it was only hunger.

I inverted the loaf pan and pulled the cinnamon bread free.

It had felt cool so I placed it onto a cutting board. I knocked. It sounded hollow. The crust had a delicious lacquer finish to it. I ran my hand over the top. It felt smooth and perfect.

It was with a deep breath that I sliced into it. An inch in from the end. Carefully. I tend to cut into bread too soon. But, this time, it was not too soon. It was just right.

I'm certain eyes widened and I know I smiled. A swirl of cinnamon. A lovely crumb. Crumb. Crust. Everything was oddly correct. As it should be.

My confidence had done wonders. Just follow the directions, I had told myself. Relax. It's only bread.

It's only bread.

I examined the slice, staring at me face up on the cutting board. I put the knife down. I picked up the knife. I rotated the slice, looking for the perfect angle in which to cut a piece for tasting. I put down the knife once again.

It doesn't matter what you look like, if you don't taste good...

I picked up the knife and sliced. I examined the piece and took a bite.

Suddenly, the hole was filled. It fell to my stomach as if on a mission.

I couldn't wait for Roberto to try it. I wondered if he would try it. It was nearing the dinner hour.

"It's so good...that...that it has the power to mend a hole in ones heart." I blurted.

He smiled.

"Or maybe the hole in ones stomach?" I said.

"Most likely." He said.

Roberto took a piece and ate it quickly. No hesitation.

"It's good." He said.

"It is good. I'm surprised. Really." I said.

The next morning we ate thick slices, toasted, with strong coffee while watching Sunday Morning.

"Who's this guy...Where's the guy?" Roberto asked.

"He has a cold." I said.

After breakfast I bagged up half of the remaining loaf to bring across the street along with The Bread Bible for Roberto's father. I had marked a prosciutto bread recipe that I thought he might be interested in seeing.

A Good Morning

2011-12-03T13:14:00.003-05:00

Saturday morning and Maple Pecan Scones

...

Full sun streams through the blinds at the front of the house.

A loaf of cinnamon bread is on its second rise.

The house is so quiet I can hear the clock tick tock.

And, another lemon just thunked to the ground.

Olives

2011-12-02T08:20:00.003-05:00

He had cracked and cured the olives himself. They were the best olives I've ever tasted.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

2011-11-30T09:24:00.006-05:00

Kindgergarten, 1978

...

I'm pretty sure mom took the photos that day.

Pigtails. Bell bottoms. Chocolate milk.

And since it was around Christmas, chocolate chip cookies. Tollhouse, usually. Made with sticks of salted butter.

...

Back to Basics

...

I picked up a bag of Ghirardelli semi-sweet. The recipe posted on the bag would be my guide, just like Tollhouse.

We didn't need chocolate chip cookies, though. We were still hammering away at a batch of coconut oatmeal. But when the kitchen is quiet, it's difficult to remain idle. So, I set the butter out to soften.

I thought about mom. How we'd make a batch of chocolate chip cookies around Christmas every year. Half with chocolate chips. Half, walnut only, for grandmom and pop pop Bill.

Lining tins with paper towels and stacking the cookies carefully for family and friends.

I'll do the same this year. I want to keep things simple and nostalgic, because it feels good to keep things simple and nostalgic.

...

Weight and Chill

...

Once the dough was just mixed I scraped down the edges with a rubber spatula and pulled out a soup spoon.

I placed a scoop on the scale. 1 1/2 oz.

I quickly rolled the dough and placed it on a plate.

Repeat.

When the last ball had been rolled I stuck the plate of chocolate chip cookie dough balls into the fridge to chill while the oven came up to temperature.

They would bake for 7 minutes. I would open the oven door and rotate the tray. The cookies would bake for 7 minutes more.

In order to allow for even spread and uniformity, only one cookie sheet took up residence in the oven at a time. And between each round, the cookie sheet just used would cool down while the other cookies baked.

There was a rhythm. With just a minute left for the cookies in the oven I would proceed to place the next round onto a parchment lined cookie sheet, delicately smashing the balls down with the palm of my hand.

Rice Balls

2011-11-28T08:01:00.007-05:00

Thanksgiving Day

...

In retrospect the antipasto was quite filling.

Rice balls. Marinated white anchovies. House cured olives. Formaggio.

This, while the ravioli boiled.

Anticipation.

And then, roast chicken. Foraged mushrooms. Potatoes (both white and sweet). Rapini. Salad.

Bread in the shape of a holiday wreath.

The wine flowed, too. Red.

Espresso. Pumpkin pie. Panettone. Chocolate chip cookies. Chocolates.

I feel like I've missed something, but I haven't.

...

Working Smarter

...

I was in the wings the entire time. Working away at other food-related tasks (washing lettuce, bringing things to a boil, setting the table).

Roberto pulled together a simple risotto for rice balls. Arborio. Onion. Chicken stock. Parsley. Butter. Salt. Pepper.

He would finish cooking it just as the pasta was set to drain. Then it would sit at the back of the stove to cool while we lingered over dinner.

The next day, while I prepared for the feast (30 minutes on our antique manually-powered ski machine at its highest incline), Roberto added bits of prosciutto and egg to the rice and formed them into balls stuffed with mozzarella.

By the time I had cleaned up, the rice balls had been dredged in flour, egg and breadcrumbs.

An efficient household, to say the least.

With dinner an hour or so away we were both anxious to get the rice balls fried. Actually, I was the anxious one.

I managed to convince Roberto that we should get it done early because we never knew when we'd get the dinner bell. Even with a designated time for dinner there was always a call to come over—the pasta's boiling!

With the last rice ball out of the oil, Roberto set the pot to cool.

A small stainless steel pan was the perfect vessel for transport. We covered it with foil and waited for the call.

Biscuits, Walk and Soup

2011-11-22T08:04:00.007-05:00

6:59 a.m.

...

The market before Thanksgiving and early risers were already buzzing within the hive. They sought organic turkey and whole milk. Hot coffee to keep their hands warm. Their minds alert. Oversized cookies to keep their children distracted and sedated.

I sought two Italian boules and a basket of apples. No more. No less.

Cream Biscuits

...

I heard quiet rustling upstairs as I wrestled the craggy dough to the floured counter. The oven beeped that it was ready, but it was not.

After some kneading and rolling, I cut rounds and placed them onto parchment for baking.

...

They're piping hot, but I don't want to take them off the sheet just yet. I had said.

Flip them. He had said.

Of course.

I flipped the biscuits one by one and placed a tea towel over them.

Their bottoms would no longer brown.

A Walk

Soup

...

Once home I roasted vegetables (butternut squash, onion, carrot, garlic) for soup.

I left the tray to cool while we ate an early afternoon dinner.

Ambling

2011-11-20T17:05:00.004-05:00

Patterson Park: Sunday Morning

...

The trees heaved deep silent breaths along the paths.

Steep. Gentle. Flat. Forked.

Our sneakered feet and cool noses led the way from bottom to top and back. Every which way.

Cobbled. Paved. Bricked. Concrete. Faded. Disjointed. Covered. Tread.

I can still feel the chill.

Our hands, warmed from our pockets, rest upon our ears now and then.

The more we move, the warmer we'll get.

He stopped with me. Started, again. Start and stop.

How many pictures do you guess I've taken? 40? 50?

At least that.

We'll find out once we're home...

Last Friday and Giving Thanks

2011-11-17T10:13:00.005-05:00

I was caught off guard by the light.

...

Last Friday

...

A thought occurred to me. Get your camera.

The light was neither perfect or imperfect. It was fleeting.

I would suspend my task (spicy sardine sauce) for the moment.

...

Giving Thanks

...

I keep typing and deleting. The weight of the words aren't matching the full breath of what I'm feeling.

You stop by. You read. You comment. You take a moment. For me. For this blog.

Thank you.

Soup and Foraging

2011-11-16T09:07:00.007-05:00

The recipe called for pearl barley and, the exotic, dried mushrooms.

Alas, our pantry was void of those staples.

No bother. The sachet would not suffer (too much). I stuffed it with the bulk of what was required. Coriander. Fennel. Parsley. Sage. Black peppercorns. Sans the thyme. No thyme. There was just no thyme.

Leek. Carrot. Turnip. Cultivated (cremini) mushrooms. Onion. Celery.

!Whir!—goes the blender.

I've wondered what we'll do with the remaining turnips and leeks. Perhaps a winter—excuse me—perhaps a FALL gratin. Just thinking inner, here.

...

Soup for Dinner, Soup for Lunch

...

I left just enough soup in the pot to boil 1/2 pound of tubetti. Our Saturday supper.

More pasta than soup would fill Roberto's bowl. More soup than pasta would fill my bowl. Balance.

And three full jars leftover for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday lunch.

I sprinkled parsley into each. With the soup still warm it would slowly steep and sink.

...

Foraging

...

I've reached the third day of soup for lunch. Day three.

While I sip, I forage for a smile, a bit of inspiration and soup for next week.

Madeleines au Chocolat

2011-11-14T07:48:00.007-05:00

It was an impulsive act. Buying a madeleine pan on my lunch break. I had been wanting to make madeleines for quite some time, really.

As I walked out to my car, clutching the plastic bag holding the pan, I can safely say I felt a sense of relief and disappointment. Relief that I could now pursue the elusive madeleine. Disappointment that I had purchased a pan specifically for one cookie. I didn't want to become one of those people.

But then I started to think about the electric kettle sitting in the cupboard. I had used it a grand total of once. Once. Or maybe, twice? At any rate, it's a constant source of levity and a reminder that in order to purchase something there must be good cause and purpose attached to it.

Good cause and purpose. I guess they're one in the same.

...

Later, while I was following the instructions to a tee, relief finally took hold. I will admit to a certain amount of uncertainty as far as the consistency of the batter, but once the first batch of madeleines slipped from the pan onto the towel to cool, I was able to breath once more. My stiff torso relaxed. My shoulders loosened.

I had gotten what I had paid for. A shell shaped cookie. Scalloped edges and all.

...

I can blame the cocoa, but inexperience plays a role as well. I'm no expert on madeleines. Before that day I had never ingested one. I had to rely on Roberto for assurance that it was going down the right path.

He explained to me how the cookie should be, ideally. A crispy buttery shell that yields to a cake like interior. Cocoa does things, he had said.

I am now anxious to make a traditional madeleine.

Inner Monologue

2011-11-11T08:05:00.006-05:00

This turned out better than I expected.

I can't believe these came from our garden.

This towel will never be this white again.

It's going to be too dark by the time the pasta is cooked.

I'm making a mess.

I'd be happy just eating this with some bread.

What a couple of beauties.

The gesture renders me speechless.

Flanked by Citrus

2011-11-10T07:55:00.003-05:00

We're running dangerously low.

It wants to be read.

Acclimated.

Preparing for Supper, Wednesday

2011-11-09T10:15:00.004-05:00

Supper

...

I feel relieved. The spinach is washed (3 times over) and the potatoes have been cleaned and quartered.

Branzino with a sauté of market spinach and Lidia's recipe for Roasted Potato Wedges (Spicchi di Patate Arroste).

...

Thinking While Doing

...

I was halfway through cooking Tomato-Braised Cauliflower (Cavolfiore Affogato al Pomodoro) when I decided to close Lidia's Italian Table. Huh...that looks good too. Roasted potato wedges.

I scanned the recipe. Idaho (baking) potatoes. Extra virgin olive oil. Salt. Fresh rosemary or thyme leaves. Garlic. Italian parsley. Black Pepper.

The only thing keeping me from jumping over to Lidia's directives on page 223 where the potatoes (lack thereof).

Thank goodness a trip to the grocery was imminent.

I closed the book. Would I remember? Page 223. Of course.

...

Beans and Greens

...

To: Roberto

From: Tracy

Subject: Beans and Greens

Your mother just left a voicemail on my phone. She said she cooked up a bunch of beans (Roman) and cabbage and for us to stop over and pick some up when we get home. She said to bring over a pot.

I guess we don't have to cook the spinach and potatoes now. Maybe we can do that tomorrow night with the fish.

We can do like we did the other week when we ate eggs with a big bowl of minestra.

...

Our plan for roasted potatoes and spinach with eggs (supper, Tuesday) had been foiled. Foiled by beans and greens.

...

What's Left to Mise

...

All I can think of now is what's left to prep (to mise). Garlic. Rosemary. Parsley. Lemon. White wine. Butter. Extra virgin olive oil. Salt. Pepper. I'm missing something...

Baking Braising Knitting

2011-11-06T16:49:00.004-05:00

Baking: Ruth's Nut Thins

I pulled one from the sheet pan. Warm and buttery. The edges brown and crumbly. I leaned over the sink (my stance for such occasions). In three bites, gone.

Nicole had chosen walnuts and pecans. I had the walnuts, but no pecans. Coconut? Yes. Sublime. I'm a sucker for the unsweetened shreds.

They're disappearing fast.

Thank you, Nicole. Thank you, Ruth.

Braising: Lidia's Tomato-Braised Cauliflower

...

I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before. Coring the cauliflower in the sink. No rogue bits of cauliflower on the counter, under foot.

After a quick rinse I set the florets to drain while I prepared the mise. 1 cup diced onion. Three garlic cloves, sliced thinly. 2 dried bay leaves. Crushed red pepper. Salt. Milled plum tomatoes ( a 28 oz can).

It was to be more of a sauce.

"This is an excellent side dish, but it also makes a great sauce for pasta or, when topped with shaved Pecorino Romano cheese, a delicious appetizer. It is wonderful as a topping for Bruschette." —Lidia Matticchio Bastianich, Lidia's Italian Table

After rendering the onion over a low flame in extra virgin olive oil along with the garlic and crushed red pepper (5 minutes or so), I added in the florets of cauliflower along with a healthy dose of salt and the bay leaves. After about another 5 minutes I added in the milled tomatoes and covered the pan.

A low flame and about 45-50 minutes was all it took. Well, that and some stirring along with careful attention (tasting here and there with slight adjustments of salt).

The cauliflower lay limp amongst the thick tomato remains.

We ate it over penne rigate with heaps of black pepper and parmesan.

Knitting: Scarf in Rib Stitch using 100% Wool

...

Where had the time gone?

It was some four hours later.

You're still knitting?

Yep. I guess I lost track of time. When did I start?

7:30.

What time is it now?

11:30.

Lemon Cloud Scones

2011-10-28T15:53:00.003-04:00

Lemon Cloud Scones

That's what I'll call them, I thought.

...

Needing Something Not Too Sweet

...

I knew that if I took a little coffee, with a little whole milk, with a bite or two of something not too sweet, I'd be zipping around. Motivated. Able. Willing. For a while, anyway.

My muse, the citrusy-floral notes perfuming the kitchen. The lemons from the lemon tree. They had been haunting me for days. Sneaking into my senses when least expected.

What is that smell? I'd think.

Do you smell that? I'd ask.

Where is that smell coming from? I'd wonder.

That's when I realized we were dealing with real lemons in the best possible way. The smell was like nothing I'd ever experienced.

...

Lemon Scones

...

I didn't hesitate. Joy of Cooking would have a recipe. Pages 640-641. Cream scones. Lemon scones.

There was some doubt, though. Two eggs? And cream? I worried they would turn into heavy little lemon pucks.

I was wrong.

The dough felt willowy and soft, like a cloud.

...

Not Too Sweet

...
I picked up one of the scones. Light as air. I imagined the inside. The crumb.
If I didn't eat one soon they would simply float away.
So, I took my coffee, with a little whole milk. I broke open a scone. I took a bite.
Not too sweet. Just right.
...
The Recipe
...
Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
Place sheet of parchment baking paper onto sheet pan.
Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl:
1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
2 1/4 teaspoons baking powder
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
Swirl dry ingredients around in large bowl with your fingers until everything feels just so.
Combine wet ingredients in a medium bowl:
2 large eggs
1 1/4 cups heavy cream
1 tablespoon lemon zest
Beat lightly with a fork until eggs and zest are thoroughly incorporated with the cream.
Pour wet into dry. Mix with the same fork you used to beat the wet ingredients together until just combined.
Dust countertop with all-purpose flour. Pour dough onto counter. Lightly flour top of dough. Pat down gingerly with one hand. Marvel in how willowy and soft it feels, but don't overwork the dough.
Flour a round cookie or biscuit cutter and start cutting away.
The amount of scones you end up with depends on how thick your dough is. My dough was about 1/2" thick, yielding about 11 scones.
Sprinkle with raw sugar to your liking and bake for 15 minutes.

Eating Pasta Every Day

2011-10-26T11:03:00.010-04:00

Eating Pasta Every Day

We don't think. We just do.

We eat pasta every day, I said.

Roberto nodded in agreement as he washed dishes and I dried.

We used to throw in a day or two—at least one day—without pasta, but not anymore, I said.

And now, because of The Glorious Pasta of Italy by Domenica Marchetti, I'm thinking about all of the pasta we've yet to eat.

It was the book jacket I noticed first. The color. The photography. The typography. The title. I bent down and pulled a copy from the shelf and proceeded to thumb through. My eyes glued. My stomach growling like a pirate plagued with famine.

I thought about it for a second. Do we really need a cookbook about pasta? Not really. I thought about it for a second more. Would it hurt to have a little inspiration? Not really.

Happily, I went straight for the register.

...

Spaghetti Aglio, Olio e Acciughe

...

Inspiration came quickly. Page 216. Spaghetti Aglio, Olio e Acciughe.

Tomato paste!

An element we've yet to introduce into our traditional garlic and olive oil pasta.

Domenica called for anchovy fillets as well. That we've done, but tomato paste—I found the idea very smart. And very old-school.

I've heard the story many times. While he was a young man in Italy—Roberto's father—sometimes the only thing he had on hand was tomato paste and a huge box of loose pasta. He claims he'd eat a pound, himself, every day. My eyes open wide at the thought.

I asked Roberto if he had looked at the recipe. He had, but didn't remember exactly what was called for. His interpretation was pretty close, though. Instead of the red pepper flakes he used a spicy pepper from the farmers market. And for a bit of zing, a sprinkling of green onion. This would be in lieu of our staple, parsley.

I hovered as layer upon layer of flavor hit the pan.

The instant flood of color (a translucent burnt orange) from the tomato paste upon impact with the pasta, linguine (we already had an open box) had me grinning and anxious to eat. To eat. I was starving. We were both starving. Starving.

And, yes, it was delicious. A little bit beyond, to be exact.

...

Needless to say, dinner left me feeling—and I'll use the word again—inspired.

Our Lemons and Butchering a Chicken

2011-10-25T08:10:00.004-04:00

Our Lemons and Butchering a Chicken

I stuffed my hand into the carcass without hesitation. Look at this!

I held the tiny muscle between my fingers and proceeded to examine it. It's the heart. It's tiny. Look at the ventrical. It had been a healthy bird.

Roberto pulled Pepin's book from the shelf and found instructions on how to butcher a chicken. The how-to seemed crude, but very matter of fact.

The best course would be to jump right in. To not over-think things. Sound advice.

While I twisted joints and cut, Roberto reminded me to be careful and watch your fingers.

I listened. In the end we had a respectable load of butchered chicken parts on the counter and not a drop of blood. We were both pleased.

...

Bumper Crop

...

It only took five years.

I clipped two lemons from the tree and brought them inside. They had a job to do.

I coated the bottom of the stainless steel pan with olive oil and proceeded to coat the chicken—sliding the parts around and flipping them until they were glossy and ready to receive seasoning. Roberto added salt and pepper. Oregano? Yes, oregano AND crushed red pepper. A healthy dose of fresh squeezed lemon and a glug or two of white wine.

Into the oven.

I hovered at first, but them surrendered myself to The Glorious Pasta of Italy by Domenica Marchetti. A nice surrender.

Egg Atop Crispy Quinoa, Ceci & Roast Zucchini

2011-10-21T12:34:00.005-04:00

Egg Atop Crispy Quinoa, Ceci & Roast Zucchini

This was a serendipitous moment.

I knew full well that I'd repurpose what was left. A slight 1/3 cup. But if I was to follow my intentions—and I did—I would end up with a most delicious end of week lunch.

My only regret is that there wasn't more leftover quinoa. Had there been, it would have required a second egg (insert heavy sigh). There was certainly room in my stomach.

This quinoa salad, frugally preserved for this day, consisted of ceci (chickpeas), red onion and zucchini which I had roasted.

I drizzled extra virgin olive oil into a non-stick pan. This would give the quinoa salad something to crisp to, to sing out from. Gradually, over a low flame, the quinoa gained color, the ceci throbbed and popped (fried ceci is a revelation).

The nutty smell was mesmerizing.

I picked a random moment to slowly release the egg into the pan. It fell perfectly and nestled just right.

To aid, I covered the pan with a glass lid. It fogged up immediately, hindering my vision. I would have to lift the lid here and there to keep abreast of progress, releasing a swath of perfumed moisture right under my nose.

I waited. Patience was necessary. Finally.

This could become an addiction.

I hunched over the plate. Smiling. Quite pleased with myself.

That first crunchy bite with egg yolk—(insert heavy sigh).

Yarn Cupcake (with a cherry on top)

2011-10-20T09:18:00.001-04:00

Yarn Cupcake (with a cherry on top)

Suspending Reality

2011-10-19T09:45:00.003-04:00

Suspending Reality

A Bowl of Pasta

2011-10-18T14:49:00.002-04:00

A Bowl of Pasta

The end of July. Tomatoes of all maturation dangled from the vine. Herbs flourished. The cupboard bulged with pasta.

I cut chicken breast into bite size pieces and sauteed mindfully in a shallow bed of salted butter and extra virgin olive oil.

I rinsed herbs under a delicate shower of cool water.

I peeled tomatoes and then commenced to dice. A methodical dice.

The kitchen, quiet. The sun shifting slowly towards sleep. The garden heaving heavy sighs under wisps of shade.

We would eat under the umbrella of streaming natural light entangled in the paddles of an overhead fan, safe from mosquito and sweat.

A fistful of basil. A generous grating of Parmesan. Cracked black pepper.

Al dente, zita cut.

Eating quietly, the two of us.

Shot from the Hip: Baltimore Farmer's Market

2011-10-16T12:33:00.004-04:00

Shot from the Hip: Baltimore Farmer's Market

Indian Summer Salad

2011-10-14T16:42:00.004-04:00

Indian Summer Salad

The old man at the market has the tiniest of displays. Cherry tomatoes. Melon. Squash. All meticulously arranged.

I handed him the pint of cherry tomatoes and $3. He retrieved a small plastic bag. Carefully he let the tomatoes roll out of the container into the suspension of the bag.

"Thank you." He said. His smile ever widened by imprints of his age.

"Thank you." I said. I smiled back.

When we got home I immediately put a pot of water on to boil. Two cups. A nice dash of salt. Once cup of quinoa. It came up to a boil quickly. I set the flame to low, covered the pot and set the timer for 15 minutes.

Like pasta, it would fret and muddle without modest attention. A stir here and there.

Lifting the lid gave way to a nutty, almost oatmeal-like fragrance.

It grew thicker. It's tiny tendrils curling out, a sign of its doneness.

When it was ready I pulled the pot from the stove and spooned the quinoa into a bowl to cool. A fluff with a fork as it came to room temperature was all that was required.

Meanwhile I prepped the rest of the salad.

A can of chickpeas, rinsed.

Three spring onions, thinly chopped.

Basil, a handful rolled, tucked and cut.

Cherry tomatoes, quartered.

Salt.

Cracked black pepper.

Olive oil.

Now I only had to wait. Adjust my attention slightly. A fluff here and there with the fork. A shuffle of the mis en place, now tumbling together in another bowl.

Once the quinoa had sufficiently cooled I commenced with combining things. A taste. Just right.

To be eaten for lunch. I, we, couldn't wait.

It has taken some time, but with a little—but not too much—effort, this hearty little salad has become a lunchtime staple.

"I like quinoa better cold." I said.

I do. I think it's at its zenith when married with other whole foods that balance and bring out it's unique flavor. It breaths when it's cool. I'll leave the mushy clumps up to my oatmeal.

Some time I'll have to write about another favorite quinoa salad. One that mixes black lentils and feta cheese.

Another time...

A Book List

2011-10-12T09:28:00.003-04:00

A Book List

The house was dark so I had to turn on a light.

I started to flit about. Engaging myself in making a list. In no particular order, but with great urgency.

flit

1. A fluttering or darting movement.

2. Informal An empty-headed, silly, often erratic person.

Source: The Free Dictionary

A shelf, here. A bedside table, there.

Book after book. It seemed like many at first. Many, it was not. Not as many as I would have liked.

And I know why.

Anne Sexton, A Biography

by Diane Wood Middlebrook

I read about Anne at night before drifting off to sleep. A deep book, thick with tiny words and psychosis. It droned on and on. It was a struggle, but I couldn't look away.

But I was pulled from the depths of literary tragedy when a new friend (Julie of Kitchen Culinaire) sent me not one, but two books. I remember the morning I was handed the package by the office mailman. I looked at the return address. Canada! I turned around in my cubicle, my back to the outside world and quietly opened the envelope.

Inside...

Tin Fish Gourmet, Great Seafood from Cupboard to Table

by Barbara-jo McIntosh

A thin volume filled with simple recipes starring tinned fish. I read it from cover to cover. A first for me, reading a cookbook straight through.

Cooking for Me and Sometimes You, A Parisian Romance with Recipes

by Barbara-jo McIntosh

It wasn't just the first paragraph that drew me into this second thin volume. It was the entire package. The ribbon bookmark, the fabric cover. It had the smell of summer's past to it. Trips to the library. I got lost immediately. And soon I was fully engulfed by the day to day quiet adventure of Barbara-jo in Paris.

Julie had hit the nail on the head. Not once, but twice.

After that, for the most part, it was a Parisian summer of sorts.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog

by Muriel Barbery

Lunch in Paris, A Love Story with Recipes

by Elizabeth Bard

The Paris Wife

by Paula McLain

And because I'm a sucker for a good food memoir, I threw one of those into the mix as well.

Home Cooking, A Writer in the Kitchen

by Laurie Colwin

But I like to keep things interesting and diverse. Or, at least I like to try.

The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

by Rebecca Skloot

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Edited by Karen V. Kukil

The Summer Book

by Tove Jansson

And that's the list. The short of it anyway.

I wonder what you read over the summer.

In Kitchen

2011-10-11T08:03:00.003-04:00

In Kitchen

Almost in Season: Clementines

No Reason: Slatted Bread Board

Out-of-Season: Tulips

A Cake of Pumpkin

2011-10-10T15:56:00.005-04:00

A Bread of Pumpkin

The weather is playing tricks on us. Mid-October—mid-eighties. An Indian Summer?

...

Pumpkin Bread

...

On Saturday I made a bread of pumpkin. I've had it on my mind for quite some time and it was time.

I was intent on omitting the ginger, nutmeg and cloves. The pumpkin-non-embracer-disliker is not a fan. But cinnamon, yes. Cinnamon would stay. Okay by me. I don't necessarily want my bread of pumpkin to taste like pumpkin pie.

And when I added an entire can of pumpkin instead of the prescribed 1 cup—I felt defeated. I had thought that I had ruined it. But, I had not. I added 1/2 cup flour more and crossed my fingers.

It baked at 350 degrees for a good hour, fifteen.

It worked.

The pumpkin-non-embracer-disliker hunched over his piece. I waited for the sniff, the face, the taste.

"It doesn't taste like pumpkin." He said.

That means he thinks it's edible, I thought.

...

And, yes, it does taste good with peanut butter (in case you're wondering).

...

Recipe can be found at thejoykitchen.com.

Note: I omitted ginger, nutmeg and cloves. I used milk instead of water. Olive oil instead of butter or shortening. 1 can of pumpkin vs 1 cup. Lastly, I opted for pecans over walnuts because that's what I had in the pantry.

A Carbonara (a partial mis en place)

2011-10-08T17:38:00.003-04:00

A Carbonara (a partial mis en place)

I'm losing light, I thought.

And so I forgot to picture the pepper mill, the bacon (so carefully rendered just moments before) and the white wine.

Perhaps if I had made a list—but there was no time for a list.

This would be a Carbonara (of sorts). Lots of garlic (one fat heirloom clove finely chopped). Shallot (again, finely chopped). Two little red devils (not their actual name) from the garden (the kind of peppers that have heat like no other). The kind of heat you don't really need when a good hammering of black pepper is all that is required. Parsley (because).

And then there's the norm. The pork (we use local bacon). The egg (two extra large, brown—also local). The cheese (Parmesan).

Linquine. De Cecco. We're running dangerously low on long pasta.

...

Do It Yourself

...

I marveled at the mis en place. The precision in which everything was brought together. My confidence was just right. I had watched and assisted enough.

"Do you want me to get this going?" I asked.

But it was already going. The flame was low. The garlic, shallot and red devils were softening. The pasta was boiling. A dash of salt. White wine. A few ladles of pasta water. A shake. A stir.

My pulse was normal, not racing.

I tasted. Spicy. There wasn't much room for black pepper, but there would have to be. Regardless of the heat.

When the time came for the eggs, he assisted. Dumping them into the pan (my old job) and retreating to the sink. I moved the pasta around quickly. The eggs were surrendering nicely. No scrambled eggs! This looks good. Holy $#!%.

I moved the pan to the other side of the stove, closer to the pasta bowls.

"I almost forgot the bacon." I said. I grabbed the ramekin and dumped the bacon into the pan.

"Ready Freddy?" I asked.

"I'm ready." He said.

Once the pasta was nestled I gave each bowl a few turns of black pepper and a sprinkling of parsley.

...

I held my breath as we both dove in.

We Always Eat

2011-10-07T07:55:00.003-04:00

We Always Eat

Coconut Oatmeal Cookies

Tinned Salmon Salad

Apple Muffins

...

I sit, have sat, with anemic thoughts. We always eat, but I cannot always write. If only my thoughts—how I translate, from synapse to fingertip—could be as prolific as my appetite.

Three sentences, now four, and distraction has me reaching and stuttering for...a complete thought.

I must release myself to the trenches. Whistle while I work. Make lists. Run through lists. Mark things off the list, lists.

Resistance is futile.

Feeding Fall

2011-10-06T07:49:00.004-04:00

Feeding Fall

I agree with Denise.

Transition

2011-09-29T07:50:00.005-04:00

Transition

Preparation for a red sauce with sauteed zucchini and a sweet zucchini quickbread.

...

Sweaters and Socks

...

The kitchen will smell of coffee and baked apples.

The pantry will be restocked.

And when all is quiet I will hear the crows.

The overcast sky will release winds and the leaves will descend. Splashes of orange will dot the landscape.

The fall back will be swift.

Atlantic Sunrise

2011-09-19T06:55:00.002-04:00

Atlantic Sunrise

I Thought of Uova Affogate

2011-09-05T18:01:00.003-04:00

I Thought of Uova Affogate

Poached eggs in tomato sauce. I felt grounded. Simplicity.

Mid-Spring and the skies were dipping and twisting. Cool and warm. Dry and wet. Intrusive. Caring not for its swings.

We sprang from the belly of the market onto the street. Rounding corners. Paying close attention to signs.

Those happy people in the window. Sipping their drinks. A good a place as any.

We ordered lunch. Beet salad. Gold and magenta with tender greens and goat cheese. Bread with crispy crust and tender crumb. Eggs with their quivering yolks lounging in a shallow pool of tomato sauce.

Very agreeable to me. As I sank back into the bench I noticed the crumbs that had landed on my lap.

...

Uova Affogate

...

The Summer is ending. My intentions stutter. I realize that I must go back to what I know.

I haven't posted a sauce in quite some time...

Finally a smile tapers from my lips. Uova Affogate. Poached eggs in tomato sauce.

When I see it. I know.

This is it.

I pull myself up. I dust myself off.

I haven't made it this way before, I think.

The sauce. Another sauce.

But when one has three cases (48 cans) of tomatoes, one needs to think fast before the shelf gives way under the weight.

I can think of nothing better.

I mill the tomatoes. I fill the base of the pan with a coat of olive oil. I finely chop the garlic and onion. I retrieve the tomato paste from the freezer. Several leaves of basil are harvested from the garden. Salt—check. Fresh milled black pepper—check. 4 eggs—as fresh as possible—check.

...

The thing is...

...

The red was a delight. Sweet and saucy. Clingy and tart. It paired perfectly with penne. Dashed with Parmesan. The crunch of the spring onion. Goodness. Perfection. If only you had been there, my friends.

And the hope was—well it wasn't—to fill our bellies with eggs with their quivering yolks lounging in a shallow pool of tomato sauce.

The remainder of the sauce stowed away. Another day. Maybe the next. Plenty to oblige when the time was right.

And then it landed elsewhere. On dough. Covered with cheese. How could it not?

My 7

2011-08-28T15:51:00.007-04:00

My 7

Most beautiful post: Breathing and Fava Beans

Most popular post: The figs are here...

Most controversial post: Stemless

Most helpful post: Desperation Brownies

A post whose success surprised me: Wordless: Stuffed Artichokes & Aglio e olio

A post I feel didn't get the attention it deserved: The Garden of Eden

The post that I am most proud of: Maxim, l'Échaudé & Monsieur (can't remember his name)

...

It has been quite a week on the East coast. The earth finally stood still. A heart stopped racing. The sun finally came out.

...

Forward

...

Amelia was kind enough to list me. Now it is my turn to list those who have inspired me.

Nut Bread

2011-08-22T08:08:00.004-04:00

Nut Bread

Deep breath.

Here I am, again. Avoiding work.

...

Nut Bread (Joy of Cooking)

Combine: 2 cups all-purpose flour, 1/2 cup sugar or packed brown sugar (I used dark brown), 2 teaspoons baking powder, and 1 teaspoon salt.

Beat in: 1 large egg, 1 cup milk, 2 tablespoons melted butter (I used olive oil), and (1/2 teaspoon vanilla)—why was vanilla parenthetical text?

I was out of vanilla, anyway.

Fold in: 1 1/2 cups chopped walnuts or pecans (I used both).

Bake at 350 degrees in a loaf pan for about 40 minutes.

...

"Do you want to try some of the nut bread before we watch Voyager?" I asked.

I had it all planned out—in my head. A slice of nut bread—because it was perfectly cooled and we hadn't so much as sliced a peek or nibble. Then we'd close the lights in the kitchen and sit down to two episodes of Voyager.

And so it went.

...

It needs the parenthetical text, the aforementioned vanilla.

Summer—But Not All At Once

2011-08-16T09:37:00.007-04:00

Summer—But Not All At Once

Grandfather (right), grinning next to the crab pot.

Grandmother and grandfather (left), dresses and ties out on the bay (Chesapeake).

Me, squinting and getting a sunburn.

Maryland Crab Cakes

...

It was immediate. A meditation on Summer followed.

The blueberry hit my tongue and there it was. I was tasting Summer. Sweet. Sour. Musky.

I sat their quietly. It didn't take long before I could feel the dampness of the earth beneath my seat. Fresh grass clippings caught between my fingers. Leaves rustling overhead.

My hair smelling of chlorine. My shoulders flaking with sunburn.

The memories start to flood like crabs trying to escape the crab pot.

It was a dark and stormy Monday...

2011-08-15T11:01:00.003-04:00

It was a dark and stormy Monday...

I climbed the stairs up from the dark basement quickly. The humidity following. It's grip weakening as my feet fell upon the final tread. Without looking, I closed the switch and let the door slam behind me. I turned the lock.

My heart thumped, keeping tempo with the thunder outside.

This is just like Sophia's storm in The Summer Book.

I worried about the pepper plants and the newly planted mums. They were drowning. It was all we could do, hope for the best.

...

Hope and Carrot Walnut Cake (quickbread)

...

I pursed my lips and held my breath. My eyes froze open. My brows arched. I waited.

By engaging in the act, the eating of the carrot walnut cake, hunched over the table, he had given the thumbs up.

I could only feel triumphant.

"I used 1 teaspoon of cinnamon instead of 1/2." I said.

"Ah. You made it your own." He said with a grin.

I could only laugh at his amusement.

"You make me laugh." I said.

And when he suggested that we bring some over for Sunday supper, my body collapsed in on itself, a full body sigh of relief. Because there can be no greater compliment.

Baby Spinach and Buttons

2011-08-12T10:47:00.003-04:00

Baby Spinach and Buttons

I could have just put it into a bowl but I transferred it to a smaller pan (just in case). It would be good at room temperature, piled onto some bread.

...

The savory liquid perfumed with shallot and garlic soaking the crumb, but not enough to penetrate the crust.

This would be good with steak.

My thoughts went to the wedge of Manchego we've yet to touch.

I wiped my mouth, my fingers, and refolded my napkin.