We show up at the door shaking the cold from our hair. You open up and let us in, and a kiss then a hug that's a little awkward because neither of us is sure when to let go and so it's stilted and strange, but I'm expecting this. You're probably wearing a bright yellow apron and I say something sarcastic and affectionate which you grin at.
"Come in, come in. Happy Thanksgiving."
Right to the kitchen, controlled chaos, and to cooking. Sweet potato gnocchi? Green bean casserole with deep fried shallots and homemade mushroom sauce that's twice as expensive but half as good as the original? Maybe both. You stand above the turkey with an electric knife and I chuckle at the gender role that you've assumed for years and are actually quite convincing at, despite the fact that you've never watched a Sunday football game in its entirety and you're still in that silly yellow apron. I'm really amused and forget that I'm chopping with a sharp knife and I cut myself, and although it doesn't hurt there's a lot of blood. I calmly run my finger under water and apply pressure while you lose your shit. You are in crisis mode: you run through the house frantically looking for a band-aid and talking yourself down which I laugh at more. I let you put the bandage on and I am irreparably touched by your tenderness and your concern and your kindness, because I am still your baby after all these 31 years.
The meal is fast and plentiful, and before we know it it's dessert which we somehow find room for, and then we sit and smile and finish our wine and then it's time to go.
So we hug goodbye and this time it's a little more natural because we shared a meal, and I give you a kiss and leave you to do the dishes. I drive off and go home and go to sleep.
If you were here.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Friday, October 7, 2011
Checkered Tablecloth Joint, SoHo
The couple next to me don't know what ravioli is. Can you believe it. Can you. I can't.
A little girl behind is corrected, made to say "yes ma'am" and my heart is filled to bursting.
And I commiserate with a server over a slice of cheesecake and English tourists, not because she knows anything about me and not because I know any of her but because I am wearing black pants, a white shirt and black clogs. She knows because she smiles and winks. Do we all know? And does she know that even though I wear the uniform I also get a good wage, health benefits and vacation time after 3 months? Well. I don't tell her.
Dinner on this very specific night brings back other dinners: feta and figs with lamb, mussels and mess, loads of chimichurri, apple tart with tequila, beef stew Thanksgiving, ravioli and vegetable stacks, brandade, instant ramen enriched, mac and cheese and ham and peas, chicken and dumplings, tortilla. Sexy breakfasts and even some desserts. Meals made significant because of first times, of many times, but not because of last times. Meals shared finally, oh what we've been missing.
I am young and very stupid and I am very stupid and I am very stupid. But I know. These meals cannot be important enough, they are of the utmost. I'm alive because of them. Maybe too alive, maybe too quick to cry, but I'm alive alive alive alive.
I think it's important to point that out.
My server asks how I'm enjoying my food. "It's good, it's what I need," I say.
She winks.
A little girl behind is corrected, made to say "yes ma'am" and my heart is filled to bursting.
And I commiserate with a server over a slice of cheesecake and English tourists, not because she knows anything about me and not because I know any of her but because I am wearing black pants, a white shirt and black clogs. She knows because she smiles and winks. Do we all know? And does she know that even though I wear the uniform I also get a good wage, health benefits and vacation time after 3 months? Well. I don't tell her.
Dinner on this very specific night brings back other dinners: feta and figs with lamb, mussels and mess, loads of chimichurri, apple tart with tequila, beef stew Thanksgiving, ravioli and vegetable stacks, brandade, instant ramen enriched, mac and cheese and ham and peas, chicken and dumplings, tortilla. Sexy breakfasts and even some desserts. Meals made significant because of first times, of many times, but not because of last times. Meals shared finally, oh what we've been missing.
I am young and very stupid and I am very stupid and I am very stupid. But I know. These meals cannot be important enough, they are of the utmost. I'm alive because of them. Maybe too alive, maybe too quick to cry, but I'm alive alive alive alive.
I think it's important to point that out.
My server asks how I'm enjoying my food. "It's good, it's what I need," I say.
She winks.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Road trip
"well it's a big, big city and the lights are all out
but it's much as I can do you know to figure you out"
Bob Dylan and Central Park saved my life, while Upper East Side doormen tipped their hats and wished me good day and I gulped down cup after cup of the worst and best coffee I've ever had. Bob Dylan and Central Park saved my life, how cliché. But...it's true. A walk to Little Italy for San Gennaro, a love affair with Queens that I wasn't ready for. Thoughts of a lost boy obscured by my own dusty path home. But home nonetheless, closer than I've had and further away than....
...This is my New York phase 1. Fresh from Chicago crisis, green and hungry. Walk for miles each day and return back different than I was. Crazy with newness, homesick and silly, in love with in love at my new rented place.
"and it's 4 in the morning, and I'm walking along
beside the ghost of every drinker here who has ever done wrong"
The weather got cooler and the outside got darker. A quick jaunt east to a Brooklyn I'd read about, consciously adhering to its spot in history, a secret personal pride about my place in (though always outside of) it. While I constantly check to see who's checking me. But I'll never admit that. So. Shh. Thanksgiving centered around beef stew and store-bought cinnamon rolls and each bite sees a shift in expectation. Bob Dylan gives way to David Bowie who wrote a song for him and several for me. Little boy lost gets found and little girl trips and falls, and trips, and falls.
...This is my second New York phase which establishes me once and for all as a non-entity and which systematically destroys and makes bloated my self-confidence. I agree to tough it out but only because I'm embarassed by failure. Not because I want to and not because I believe that I'll survive.
"so if you're lonely why'd you say you're not lonely"
A winter that sees me stranded, god damn did the blizzard really need to stick me in Park Slope? Long commutes and boiling subways and for the first time I realize I'm happy to stay home at night. Bad delivery pizza and cheap wine from my plexi-glassed local sadden me but there is none more convenient. Lonesome becomes me and music? I don't remember music, but I remember snow and I remember indoors.
...I don't know much of me in winter. I think that I was tired and I quit a job in Queens (I'm very sorry, darling) and I watched a lot of flamenco and must have celebrated some holidays and somewhere I got myself another year older. That can't be all but? Maybe that's the point.
"and I must confess, my hearts all broke in pieces
and my head's a mess"
Tom Waits, scream me a lullaby while I drink my coffee water (ice melted long ago) at a coffeeshop in this scorching city, oh, has all of the wind died? And, oh, where have all the PC's gone? Away, certainly, from this nutjob town where efficiency trumps all and Trump trumps none. Tom Waits, give way to Elvis (well, hello) singing Christmas songs out of season while the crumbs of my almond croissant scatter themselves across the table, butter pastry defenseless against a ceiling fan with an agenda. An agenda of which I have none after two months of nothing but.
...New York phase well, I forget. A rare second of respite at least. I've recently traveled from East to Midwest, back East again and a four-hour turnaround then to Washington DC, itself a confused jumble of architecture and status symbols different from any I've ever seen. Grateful to be back because, my dears, a surprise: I've fallen in love again.
"well it's a big big city and it's always the same"
Home to heat up leftover Indian food, into my room for a documentary when I smell food and smoke, open my door to two new friends who invite me to sit down, eat, play a game of cards. Then settle onto my (our) couch, look at my (our) table and...our...bookshelves and talk 'til it's light. And into bed to hold a hand and smile to sleep. Is this forever, as my eyes close, forever is awful long. But forever, also, is a thing I've never thought and here I am.
(That was yesterday.)
And then was today, when I danced in the rain.
but it's much as I can do you know to figure you out"
Bob Dylan and Central Park saved my life, while Upper East Side doormen tipped their hats and wished me good day and I gulped down cup after cup of the worst and best coffee I've ever had. Bob Dylan and Central Park saved my life, how cliché. But...it's true. A walk to Little Italy for San Gennaro, a love affair with Queens that I wasn't ready for. Thoughts of a lost boy obscured by my own dusty path home. But home nonetheless, closer than I've had and further away than....
...This is my New York phase 1. Fresh from Chicago crisis, green and hungry. Walk for miles each day and return back different than I was. Crazy with newness, homesick and silly, in love with in love at my new rented place.
"and it's 4 in the morning, and I'm walking along
beside the ghost of every drinker here who has ever done wrong"
The weather got cooler and the outside got darker. A quick jaunt east to a Brooklyn I'd read about, consciously adhering to its spot in history, a secret personal pride about my place in (though always outside of) it. While I constantly check to see who's checking me. But I'll never admit that. So. Shh. Thanksgiving centered around beef stew and store-bought cinnamon rolls and each bite sees a shift in expectation. Bob Dylan gives way to David Bowie who wrote a song for him and several for me. Little boy lost gets found and little girl trips and falls, and trips, and falls.
...This is my second New York phase which establishes me once and for all as a non-entity and which systematically destroys and makes bloated my self-confidence. I agree to tough it out but only because I'm embarassed by failure. Not because I want to and not because I believe that I'll survive.
"so if you're lonely why'd you say you're not lonely"
A winter that sees me stranded, god damn did the blizzard really need to stick me in Park Slope? Long commutes and boiling subways and for the first time I realize I'm happy to stay home at night. Bad delivery pizza and cheap wine from my plexi-glassed local sadden me but there is none more convenient. Lonesome becomes me and music? I don't remember music, but I remember snow and I remember indoors.
...I don't know much of me in winter. I think that I was tired and I quit a job in Queens (I'm very sorry, darling) and I watched a lot of flamenco and must have celebrated some holidays and somewhere I got myself another year older. That can't be all but? Maybe that's the point.
"and I must confess, my hearts all broke in pieces
and my head's a mess"
Tom Waits, scream me a lullaby while I drink my coffee water (ice melted long ago) at a coffeeshop in this scorching city, oh, has all of the wind died? And, oh, where have all the PC's gone? Away, certainly, from this nutjob town where efficiency trumps all and Trump trumps none. Tom Waits, give way to Elvis (well, hello) singing Christmas songs out of season while the crumbs of my almond croissant scatter themselves across the table, butter pastry defenseless against a ceiling fan with an agenda. An agenda of which I have none after two months of nothing but.
...New York phase well, I forget. A rare second of respite at least. I've recently traveled from East to Midwest, back East again and a four-hour turnaround then to Washington DC, itself a confused jumble of architecture and status symbols different from any I've ever seen. Grateful to be back because, my dears, a surprise: I've fallen in love again.
"well it's a big big city and it's always the same"
Home to heat up leftover Indian food, into my room for a documentary when I smell food and smoke, open my door to two new friends who invite me to sit down, eat, play a game of cards. Then settle onto my (our) couch, look at my (our) table and...our...bookshelves and talk 'til it's light. And into bed to hold a hand and smile to sleep. Is this forever, as my eyes close, forever is awful long. But forever, also, is a thing I've never thought and here I am.
(That was yesterday.)
And then was today, when I danced in the rain.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
On taking time off
-Perhaps I'm lonesome sometimes I think and look at my Modelo, the last of the night, taken with the herbal sleeping pills, one of the most thoughtful gifts from a man, ever, the other being a trilogy of books about killing god and teenage sex
-I dressed up in what could only be described as "cocktail business casual" and flirted my way to a job but have been wearing a long t-shirt, my dad's, since I got home at 4
-Broken Flowers I finally got around to watching, thinking I had seen it years ago and then I spent an hour researching "road movie" which is actually a genre borne of tales like The Odyssey and drafting my own hero's quest though hitting myself on my forehead with my palm because I actually expect to learn something
-I stare at all of my new furniture which is familiar enough to make me sad for what I don't know how to build
-Reflections on a cancelled promise which is familiar enough to make me sad for what I never tried to build
-The guy across the way looks in and I realize I'm pantsless and man we really need to get some curtains
-The air conditioner wakes me up just as things are getting good
-I'm very angry at grammar. Again.
-I've been here for a year now and still get drunk and ramble on the magic, the serendipity, the parched filthy glamour that is this asshole of a city: Romance that sticks me in the guts when I need a reminder or when I'm feeling complacent. Oldest train I've ever seen creaking me reliably between burroughs. Exhaustion that's become fundamental to my being and my being here, makes it possible to function in such a way which is the only way. French restaurant that I return to because it really is the best. Vaulting ambition full 'o the milk of human kindness...where else but here, and I mean it, where else but here.
-And this, because it comforted me on the first cool day and I hear it's fall
Boozy Onion Soup
This stuff is warm, it's thick, it's resplendent with onions. And if you're feeling particularly bad for yourself, it's very helpful as it contains both wine and beer, which I'd recommend drinking while waiting for the onions to brown, and afterwards, and well into the night.
2-3 servings
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp butter
2 onions, cut in half and sliced very thin
7 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
A whole mess of thyme leaves (2 tbsp at least)
1/2 cup dark beer (I used Abita Turbodog 'cause I had it)
1 cup red wine
2 1/2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
Salt
Slice of bread per person (I used pita because it was all I could get)
1/2 cup swiss cheese, shredded (gruyere is dandy but just try to find it at my local supermarket...)
Handful of parmesan
Melt butter and olive oil in a large pot over low - medium heat. Add onions and thyme and season with salt, then stir every few minutes until the onions caramelize (this will take awhile and you can step away for a few minutes at the beginning, but once they turn very soft -- after about 15 minutes -- make sure to stir constantly and watch closely. You want them a deep, dark brown but not burnt). Add garlic and stir for about two more minutes, then pour in beer. Let beer evaporate almost completely (you'll be left with a gorgeous, concentrated taste) and add wine and more salt if needed. Let wine come to the boil for about one minute, then add stock and reduce heat to low. Let simmer for about 10 minutes and prepare cheese toasts:
(Butter each slice of bread on both sides. Warm a skillet over medium heat and brown each side slowly. After you've flipped the bread for the first time, sprinkle with equal amounts cheese, reduce the heat to low and cover with lid just until cheese is melted. You could also do this under the broiler or in the oven, but I like it in a pan)
Taste soup for seasoning, ladle into bowls and top with a cheese toast. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese and serve immediately.
-I dressed up in what could only be described as "cocktail business casual" and flirted my way to a job but have been wearing a long t-shirt, my dad's, since I got home at 4
-Broken Flowers I finally got around to watching, thinking I had seen it years ago and then I spent an hour researching "road movie" which is actually a genre borne of tales like The Odyssey and drafting my own hero's quest though hitting myself on my forehead with my palm because I actually expect to learn something
-I stare at all of my new furniture which is familiar enough to make me sad for what I don't know how to build
-Reflections on a cancelled promise which is familiar enough to make me sad for what I never tried to build
-The guy across the way looks in and I realize I'm pantsless and man we really need to get some curtains
-The air conditioner wakes me up just as things are getting good
-I'm very angry at grammar. Again.
-I've been here for a year now and still get drunk and ramble on the magic, the serendipity, the parched filthy glamour that is this asshole of a city: Romance that sticks me in the guts when I need a reminder or when I'm feeling complacent. Oldest train I've ever seen creaking me reliably between burroughs. Exhaustion that's become fundamental to my being and my being here, makes it possible to function in such a way which is the only way. French restaurant that I return to because it really is the best. Vaulting ambition full 'o the milk of human kindness...where else but here, and I mean it, where else but here.
-And this, because it comforted me on the first cool day and I hear it's fall
Boozy Onion Soup
This stuff is warm, it's thick, it's resplendent with onions. And if you're feeling particularly bad for yourself, it's very helpful as it contains both wine and beer, which I'd recommend drinking while waiting for the onions to brown, and afterwards, and well into the night.
2-3 servings
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp butter
2 onions, cut in half and sliced very thin
7 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
A whole mess of thyme leaves (2 tbsp at least)
1/2 cup dark beer (I used Abita Turbodog 'cause I had it)
1 cup red wine
2 1/2 cups chicken or vegetable stock
Salt
Slice of bread per person (I used pita because it was all I could get)
1/2 cup swiss cheese, shredded (gruyere is dandy but just try to find it at my local supermarket...)
Handful of parmesan
Melt butter and olive oil in a large pot over low - medium heat. Add onions and thyme and season with salt, then stir every few minutes until the onions caramelize (this will take awhile and you can step away for a few minutes at the beginning, but once they turn very soft -- after about 15 minutes -- make sure to stir constantly and watch closely. You want them a deep, dark brown but not burnt). Add garlic and stir for about two more minutes, then pour in beer. Let beer evaporate almost completely (you'll be left with a gorgeous, concentrated taste) and add wine and more salt if needed. Let wine come to the boil for about one minute, then add stock and reduce heat to low. Let simmer for about 10 minutes and prepare cheese toasts:
(Butter each slice of bread on both sides. Warm a skillet over medium heat and brown each side slowly. After you've flipped the bread for the first time, sprinkle with equal amounts cheese, reduce the heat to low and cover with lid just until cheese is melted. You could also do this under the broiler or in the oven, but I like it in a pan)
Taste soup for seasoning, ladle into bowls and top with a cheese toast. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese and serve immediately.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Asparagusto
Everyone's gettin' married. Boom. There it is. Everyone's gettin' married and everyone's havin' kids. This past month has seen a sharp increase in the wedded bliss, both imagined and actual, of my friends and family. And tens of little baby buns all warm and toasty and ready for the world. I predict a barrage of petite, flawless squares of paper urging me to "save the date" and even more dedicated to the teeny squinty-eyed perfection of little kiddos and doting mum-and-daddas.
What accounts for the spike in all-around good newses? I was warned about this by my older cousins ("Oh, those years. Those years are just going to be a blur of brides and babies")(I assume they were referring to my 20's and 30's?), but this seems unprecedented. It's like everyone jumped all over poor June's soul and threatened to overtake it with flower arrangements and bassinets.
(Ha. Do bassinets exist anymore?)
Now, I enjoy a good party, don't get me wrong. I'm all for happiness, and babies are awfully cute...but my god! My tearducts! My...wallet! Ack. I know it's summer and this trend isn't new by any means and really, when love and children are all you have to complain about, c'mon...but there's something afoot here and it's freaking me out. I believe I'm approaching the phase in my life otherwise known as Looking Back On. Or maybe it's the Why Didn't I? Or the Never Will I Ever. It's kind of profound in a sort of fluffy way.
So of course I revert back to my very least responsible and most excellent self. I've been thinking an awful lot about college, daring myself to return to the dirt, grime and muck of those few years that were good, so good while they lasted. The intrigue, the sleepovers (in twin beds! I still can't believe that), beer for breakfast which I haven't been able to do since, all the learning, growing, the BOOKS my gosh, and the incredible transformation that happens when you're suspended in a four-years-wide bubble...I wasn't what you'd call "naive," but I was significantly brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed than I am now. In fact, I think that my tail's all but fallen off (we've all gotta lose it sometime).
I also remember the food, and bear with me please. Wash U. had tremendous food. I think that we were ranked higher for our food service than for our academics, which was fine for the students (if not for the endowment). Perhaps the culmination of this stalwart commitment to culinary quality was weekend brunch at Center Court (I still don't know exactly what Center Court was, but I was an ardent fan). We had omelets made to order, kids. French toast, a waffle bar, meats, cheeses...and we'd lug our hungover asses to the cafeteria and pig out. I'm getting sick just thinking about it, both for the sheer volume of food consumed and the idea that our university more resembled a luxury hotel than an institution of higher education. But I ate, and ate well, and don't remember complaining about it while I was there.
One day I was at Center Court with my friend and I decided to reenact a scene from one of my favorite movies, Dangerous Beauty. It's a silly film and I adore it, and there's this one moment where a rather aged but still with-it lady suggestively eats a stalk of asparagus (it's classy! it's...classy.). With the steamed asparagus I'd picked up at the buffet, I attempted the same...and got the end lodged in my throat. About a minute later (and no thanks to my friend, who was laughing and pointing across the table while I turned red, then blue) I managed to pull it out and, scowling, finished my meal.
My relationship with asparagus has never been the same. I don't really get excited when it comes into season. I'm still apprehensive and it might be about my behavior and it might be about the vegetable, but I just don't use it all that much. So I was quite surprised with myself when I picked up a bunch the other day. I'm not going to talk about its gorgeous tender buds or the verdant essence of musk or whatever it is asparagus looks/smells/tastes like. I'm just going to say: that night I fell to sleep in my full-sized bed (!!!) with a newfound respect for the long green stalk. Maybe I'll give asparagus another chance. I am growing up, after all.
Tagliatelle with Asparagus and Pancetta
This wasn't really an inspiration. This was "I have to get everything out of my fridge and NOW." I used SchoolHouse Kitchen's SweetSmoothHot Mustard because, well, I work for them and it's a fabulous product, but you can use a mixture of honey and mustard with almost identical results. The dish, before adding the pasta, stands alone as well...so if you don't have pasta milling about your cupboard, don't despair...just don't, please, don't overcook the asparagus. And add more pancetta if you'd like, and more cheese if you'd like, and eat it with your fingers, if you'd like. I'm sure I did.
Serves 3-4
One bunch of asparagus, woody ends removed, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 tbsp. olive oil
3 tbsp. pancetta, coarsely chopped
2 shallots, chopped fine
4 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
2 tbsp. of SweetSmoothHot Mustard, 1 tbsp. dijon and 1 tbsp. honey (or sub your favorite)
1.5 tsp. butter
Couple glugs leftover dry white wine from lunch
2-3 cups cooked pasta (from fresh or dry, really, any shape will do), just al dente
1/2 cup (or more) reserved pasta cooking liquid
Salt
2 tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped
2 tbsp. parmesan, grated, plus more for serving
Sprinkle truffle oil (optional)
Simmer about an inch of water in a saute pan over medium heat. Add asparagus, salt and a bit of olive oil. Shake around until water has evaporated, then remove asparagus. Pour in rest of olive oil and saute pancetta until crisp. Remove pancetta to paper towels to drain, leaving the rendered fat in the pan. Add shallots and garlic, and sweat for about 3 minutes until translucent. Add mustard (or honey and mustard), butter and wine, and check for seasoning, adding salt if necessary. Add asparagus and pasta, plus a bit of cooking liquid until sauce is loose enough to just coat pasta -- you don't want a soup so add water sparingly. Stir in parsley and parmesan and remove from heat. Before serving, stir in crisped pancetta and sprinkle on truffle oil and extra parmesan if desired.
What accounts for the spike in all-around good newses? I was warned about this by my older cousins ("Oh, those years. Those years are just going to be a blur of brides and babies")(I assume they were referring to my 20's and 30's?), but this seems unprecedented. It's like everyone jumped all over poor June's soul and threatened to overtake it with flower arrangements and bassinets.
(Ha. Do bassinets exist anymore?)
Now, I enjoy a good party, don't get me wrong. I'm all for happiness, and babies are awfully cute...but my god! My tearducts! My...wallet! Ack. I know it's summer and this trend isn't new by any means and really, when love and children are all you have to complain about, c'mon...but there's something afoot here and it's freaking me out. I believe I'm approaching the phase in my life otherwise known as Looking Back On. Or maybe it's the Why Didn't I? Or the Never Will I Ever. It's kind of profound in a sort of fluffy way.
So of course I revert back to my very least responsible and most excellent self. I've been thinking an awful lot about college, daring myself to return to the dirt, grime and muck of those few years that were good, so good while they lasted. The intrigue, the sleepovers (in twin beds! I still can't believe that), beer for breakfast which I haven't been able to do since, all the learning, growing, the BOOKS my gosh, and the incredible transformation that happens when you're suspended in a four-years-wide bubble...I wasn't what you'd call "naive," but I was significantly brighter-eyed and bushier-tailed than I am now. In fact, I think that my tail's all but fallen off (we've all gotta lose it sometime).
I also remember the food, and bear with me please. Wash U. had tremendous food. I think that we were ranked higher for our food service than for our academics, which was fine for the students (if not for the endowment). Perhaps the culmination of this stalwart commitment to culinary quality was weekend brunch at Center Court (I still don't know exactly what Center Court was, but I was an ardent fan). We had omelets made to order, kids. French toast, a waffle bar, meats, cheeses...and we'd lug our hungover asses to the cafeteria and pig out. I'm getting sick just thinking about it, both for the sheer volume of food consumed and the idea that our university more resembled a luxury hotel than an institution of higher education. But I ate, and ate well, and don't remember complaining about it while I was there.
One day I was at Center Court with my friend and I decided to reenact a scene from one of my favorite movies, Dangerous Beauty. It's a silly film and I adore it, and there's this one moment where a rather aged but still with-it lady suggestively eats a stalk of asparagus (it's classy! it's...classy.). With the steamed asparagus I'd picked up at the buffet, I attempted the same...and got the end lodged in my throat. About a minute later (and no thanks to my friend, who was laughing and pointing across the table while I turned red, then blue) I managed to pull it out and, scowling, finished my meal.
My relationship with asparagus has never been the same. I don't really get excited when it comes into season. I'm still apprehensive and it might be about my behavior and it might be about the vegetable, but I just don't use it all that much. So I was quite surprised with myself when I picked up a bunch the other day. I'm not going to talk about its gorgeous tender buds or the verdant essence of musk or whatever it is asparagus looks/smells/tastes like. I'm just going to say: that night I fell to sleep in my full-sized bed (!!!) with a newfound respect for the long green stalk. Maybe I'll give asparagus another chance. I am growing up, after all.
Tagliatelle with Asparagus and Pancetta
This wasn't really an inspiration. This was "I have to get everything out of my fridge and NOW." I used SchoolHouse Kitchen's SweetSmoothHot Mustard because, well, I work for them and it's a fabulous product, but you can use a mixture of honey and mustard with almost identical results. The dish, before adding the pasta, stands alone as well...so if you don't have pasta milling about your cupboard, don't despair...just don't, please, don't overcook the asparagus. And add more pancetta if you'd like, and more cheese if you'd like, and eat it with your fingers, if you'd like. I'm sure I did.
Serves 3-4
One bunch of asparagus, woody ends removed, cut into 1/2-inch pieces
1 tbsp. olive oil
3 tbsp. pancetta, coarsely chopped
2 shallots, chopped fine
4 cloves of garlic, chopped fine
2 tbsp. of SweetSmoothHot Mustard, 1 tbsp. dijon and 1 tbsp. honey (or sub your favorite)
1.5 tsp. butter
Couple glugs leftover dry white wine from lunch
2-3 cups cooked pasta (from fresh or dry, really, any shape will do), just al dente
1/2 cup (or more) reserved pasta cooking liquid
Salt
2 tbsp. fresh parsley, chopped
2 tbsp. parmesan, grated, plus more for serving
Sprinkle truffle oil (optional)
Simmer about an inch of water in a saute pan over medium heat. Add asparagus, salt and a bit of olive oil. Shake around until water has evaporated, then remove asparagus. Pour in rest of olive oil and saute pancetta until crisp. Remove pancetta to paper towels to drain, leaving the rendered fat in the pan. Add shallots and garlic, and sweat for about 3 minutes until translucent. Add mustard (or honey and mustard), butter and wine, and check for seasoning, adding salt if necessary. Add asparagus and pasta, plus a bit of cooking liquid until sauce is loose enough to just coat pasta -- you don't want a soup so add water sparingly. Stir in parsley and parmesan and remove from heat. Before serving, stir in crisped pancetta and sprinkle on truffle oil and extra parmesan if desired.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Smashed
When the end of the week rolls around, especially if it's been a 15-day week, I don't so much walk home from my job as trudge. That's right, folks, I'm a trudger. I drag my feet, I stomp, I huff and puff. If it's really warm outside, I'm probably sweating. Essentially, at the end of the week I become a crotchety old man, at least on the walk from the Sterling station to my apartment (on the third floor, can you believe it? Oh, the misery). Overall I'd say it's about the dopiest I ever look, and god bless (and god save) the poor soul who finds it appealing in any way.
The rest of my routine is pretty straightforward: I go directly to the cupboard, retrieve a wine glass, fill 'er up, gulp 'er down. Then fill 'er up. Then gulp 'er down. Interspersed with the fill-and-gulp (which sounds rather unfortunately like a new dance craze made perhaps most popular around petrol station convenience stores) is an episode of tv, a chapter of a book, and dinner, which doesn't generally require anything other than a pot, a jaunt through my fridge and a fork. Maybe another episode, possibly another chapter though by this time my eyes have generally glazed over, and to bed, to bed, to bed.
At the end of last work-week, though, I was pleasantly surprised. On my walk from the job to the subway, the lights all turned green for me, which was very polite. I was half-expecting a lamppost to throw down its coat to prevent my dainty feet from touching one of the many puddles on the rainy, dreary day. I also found a penny in the street and then another one on the subway stairs, and I'm proud of my superstition and you'd better believe I picked both of them up and straight into pockets and purse. I passed several games of Double Dutch despite the rain, and you've gotta hand it to those shrill little voices, they've got spirit if nothing else. I think it's even fair to say that my step picked up a bit, edged on by the screams and rhymes, hey, I was nostalgic for the rope I never jumped as a young girl in the suburbs of Chicago.
So I grooved on into my kitchen, tween temporarily overtaking curmudgeon, and rifled around in my refrigerator for some ingredients to compliment my mood, which was almost carefree and helped along by the obligatory wine and extreme gummy bears I practically chugged upon realizing that I still had a stash. I came up with an onion, some lovely grape tomatoes, both yellow and red, garlic, mozzarella, and basil...and decided to make a sauce for the fresh-ish tagliatelle I'd picked up at Eataly earlier in the week. Generally my favorite spaghetti would be enough, but I felt like putting pan to heat on this particular day and I also felt like demolition 'cause young souls can jump rope and yelp and destroy and feel no guilt. So a mass of caramelized onions later, I poured the unsuspecting tomatoes into the mix, let them get soft, and mashed the shit out of them with my tongs. I ended up wearing much of it and burning my arms with the wayward juices of several of the violated fruits, but I suppose I deserved it. I also cut up a radish and dragged it through the melting butter on the onions, sprinkled it with salt and ate it down, followed by a glug of wine. I'm not really sure what's wrong with me.
Smashed Tomato Sauce
This sauce is totally all-purpose. You can throw it on pasta, as I did, or put it on toasted bread, or puree it into a soup, or serve it on top of grilled fish, chicken, beef...it's just brilliant. Caramelizing the onions was kind of a tough decision on my part, because they become a relatively strong presence, but if you think about the beauty of soft, jammy, sweet-as-candy onions up against the acidity of just-seared tomatoes, the bite of torn basil and the slight give of fresh pasta, it makes some sense (maybe I know what I'm doing). The sauce gets better as it sits, so make a bunch and keep it in your refrigerator for a few days. And hey -- tomatoes are good all summer long, so try different varieties.
Serves 2, several times
1 tbsp. olive oil
1 medium-sized onion, sliced into thin half-moons
1 tbsp. butter
5 large cloves garlic, sliced fine
1.5 cups or so of ripe pear, teardrop, cherry, grape (etc) tomatoes
Handful of torn fresh basil
salt to taste
Heat a large skillet, add olive oil and onions. Season with salt and add a splash of water. Over low heat, cook onions, adding more water as necessary so they don't burn (remember to stir!). When they're translucent add butter and garlic, and cook until deep brown and very sweet (adding more water as it evaporates, and keep stirring, please!). Add tomatoes, push them to the bottom of the pan and cover them with onion mixture. Cover pan for about three minutes, until tomato skin starts to blister and tear. Using tongs or the back of a wooden spoon, gently squeeze tomatoes just until they break. Add more salt if needed and stir in the basil.
Serving Suggestions:
-Pour over al dente pasta and cubed mozzarella, stirring until the mozzarella just begins to melt (see below)
-Cut a good ole loaf of bread into slices, put in oven/under broiler/on grill (400 degrees) until charred, rub bread with a garlic clove and drizzle with olive oil (you know the drill), and top with sauce
-Puree mixture, or most of mixture, and add a splash of cream for lovely tomato soup
-Spoon over grilled poultry, steak or fish
-Use as omelet filling, along with some cheese
-Make a sandwich with sauce, spinach, cheese, ciabatta, meats, etc.
The rest of my routine is pretty straightforward: I go directly to the cupboard, retrieve a wine glass, fill 'er up, gulp 'er down. Then fill 'er up. Then gulp 'er down. Interspersed with the fill-and-gulp (which sounds rather unfortunately like a new dance craze made perhaps most popular around petrol station convenience stores) is an episode of tv, a chapter of a book, and dinner, which doesn't generally require anything other than a pot, a jaunt through my fridge and a fork. Maybe another episode, possibly another chapter though by this time my eyes have generally glazed over, and to bed, to bed, to bed.
At the end of last work-week, though, I was pleasantly surprised. On my walk from the job to the subway, the lights all turned green for me, which was very polite. I was half-expecting a lamppost to throw down its coat to prevent my dainty feet from touching one of the many puddles on the rainy, dreary day. I also found a penny in the street and then another one on the subway stairs, and I'm proud of my superstition and you'd better believe I picked both of them up and straight into pockets and purse. I passed several games of Double Dutch despite the rain, and you've gotta hand it to those shrill little voices, they've got spirit if nothing else. I think it's even fair to say that my step picked up a bit, edged on by the screams and rhymes, hey, I was nostalgic for the rope I never jumped as a young girl in the suburbs of Chicago.
So I grooved on into my kitchen, tween temporarily overtaking curmudgeon, and rifled around in my refrigerator for some ingredients to compliment my mood, which was almost carefree and helped along by the obligatory wine and extreme gummy bears I practically chugged upon realizing that I still had a stash. I came up with an onion, some lovely grape tomatoes, both yellow and red, garlic, mozzarella, and basil...and decided to make a sauce for the fresh-ish tagliatelle I'd picked up at Eataly earlier in the week. Generally my favorite spaghetti would be enough, but I felt like putting pan to heat on this particular day and I also felt like demolition 'cause young souls can jump rope and yelp and destroy and feel no guilt. So a mass of caramelized onions later, I poured the unsuspecting tomatoes into the mix, let them get soft, and mashed the shit out of them with my tongs. I ended up wearing much of it and burning my arms with the wayward juices of several of the violated fruits, but I suppose I deserved it. I also cut up a radish and dragged it through the melting butter on the onions, sprinkled it with salt and ate it down, followed by a glug of wine. I'm not really sure what's wrong with me.
This sauce is totally all-purpose. You can throw it on pasta, as I did, or put it on toasted bread, or puree it into a soup, or serve it on top of grilled fish, chicken, beef...it's just brilliant. Caramelizing the onions was kind of a tough decision on my part, because they become a relatively strong presence, but if you think about the beauty of soft, jammy, sweet-as-candy onions up against the acidity of just-seared tomatoes, the bite of torn basil and the slight give of fresh pasta, it makes some sense (maybe I know what I'm doing). The sauce gets better as it sits, so make a bunch and keep it in your refrigerator for a few days. And hey -- tomatoes are good all summer long, so try different varieties.
Serves 2, several times
1 tbsp. olive oil
1 medium-sized onion, sliced into thin half-moons
1 tbsp. butter
5 large cloves garlic, sliced fine
1.5 cups or so of ripe pear, teardrop, cherry, grape (etc) tomatoes
Handful of torn fresh basil
salt to taste
Heat a large skillet, add olive oil and onions. Season with salt and add a splash of water. Over low heat, cook onions, adding more water as necessary so they don't burn (remember to stir!). When they're translucent add butter and garlic, and cook until deep brown and very sweet (adding more water as it evaporates, and keep stirring, please!). Add tomatoes, push them to the bottom of the pan and cover them with onion mixture. Cover pan for about three minutes, until tomato skin starts to blister and tear. Using tongs or the back of a wooden spoon, gently squeeze tomatoes just until they break. Add more salt if needed and stir in the basil.
Serving Suggestions:
-Pour over al dente pasta and cubed mozzarella, stirring until the mozzarella just begins to melt (see below)
-Puree mixture, or most of mixture, and add a splash of cream for lovely tomato soup
-Spoon over grilled poultry, steak or fish
-Use as omelet filling, along with some cheese
-Make a sandwich with sauce, spinach, cheese, ciabatta, meats, etc.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
It started with a hunch (and was all a game of numbers)
My overtired self tends to assume the worst always, as opposed to my regularly-tired self who is only a slight pessimist in comparison. Maybe starting with the dream I had this morning that wasn't entirely a dream, the time between sleep and wakefulness that in my semi-unconscious state seemed like an hour but was probably five minutes. The dream where I forgot the shirt, missed the train, miscounted the money, fell on the ground, didn't stock up that almost started to materialize as I stumbled out of one station and to the next, to the 4 instead of the 2 because the 2 wasn't coming for 18 minutes at 6 in the morning. Waited for the R to roll around, angry at myself for being too tired to walk the 20 minutes to 3rd and 3rd.
7 hours in the heat but some money to show for it at least. A man with a certain knowledge that could be useful, and anyway he was entertaining. A mushroom sandwich on good sweet bread. Home to sweat that freezes in the air conditioner's cold dry stream. Some dinner and some wine, too tired to read but not to watch, and a supposedly early bedtime. Brush teeth admire self-administered haircut splash face and taste salt.
And then I walk back into my room and even the opaque black shower curtain-cum-windowshade is glowing red, orange, green, blue, red, orange, green all staccato. I say "don't look don't look don't look you dreamed all this last night" but of course I look and there's a cavalcade of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks lining my street and nothing is happening but I know something's about to. First I think it's my building and a disaster but I'm out on the fire escape looking down and my eyes tell me that there's no smoke and my ears tell me that there is no panic. I see other heads straining out of windows and I also see passers-by barely glancing, and both reactions strike me as strange even though I'm of the former.
Finally a stretcher into the building next door...and even though I'm fine, I know I'm fine as I'm of sound mind, I'm scared for what comes out on that stretcher and I think, "I will see blood, there will be tears" and so I keep glued to the spot and what I see finally is no blood, no tears, no scene. Just 16 men in uniform, seven emergency response vehicles and one human on the stretcher.
Now I don't know what happened in that building and I don't want to imagine it, but I do know that the man was wheeled out and he was alone. The good city workers of New York, done for the moment, wipe their brows and exchange some smiles and some words before driving away unceremoniously as if they do this every day as if this is a job and which they do and which it is. And one lone man in the back of an ambulance who is maybe not breathing and his only company are the two whose hands I see fluttering over his body as the vehicle leaves and makes my street black again, almost all black, at least eighty-five percent.
2-18-6-4-20-3-3-7-16-7-
and 1
(and 2)
and 85.
All come to roost in the city tonight between Manhattan and Brooklyn despite construction on the bridge. Hot heat of two islands perspiring onto themselves and each drop that falls is another person crammed into the subway car, another life working all day long, another soul restless for a place of overwhelming exactitude and unbridled excess. Tonight though I know one drop and one drop is a man without any mourners who we shut our windows on when it gets too hot to breathe.
I'm not really sure how to finish this one.
7 hours in the heat but some money to show for it at least. A man with a certain knowledge that could be useful, and anyway he was entertaining. A mushroom sandwich on good sweet bread. Home to sweat that freezes in the air conditioner's cold dry stream. Some dinner and some wine, too tired to read but not to watch, and a supposedly early bedtime. Brush teeth admire self-administered haircut splash face and taste salt.
And then I walk back into my room and even the opaque black shower curtain-cum-windowshade is glowing red, orange, green, blue, red, orange, green all staccato. I say "don't look don't look don't look you dreamed all this last night" but of course I look and there's a cavalcade of police cars, ambulances, fire trucks lining my street and nothing is happening but I know something's about to. First I think it's my building and a disaster but I'm out on the fire escape looking down and my eyes tell me that there's no smoke and my ears tell me that there is no panic. I see other heads straining out of windows and I also see passers-by barely glancing, and both reactions strike me as strange even though I'm of the former.
Finally a stretcher into the building next door...and even though I'm fine, I know I'm fine as I'm of sound mind, I'm scared for what comes out on that stretcher and I think, "I will see blood, there will be tears" and so I keep glued to the spot and what I see finally is no blood, no tears, no scene. Just 16 men in uniform, seven emergency response vehicles and one human on the stretcher.
Now I don't know what happened in that building and I don't want to imagine it, but I do know that the man was wheeled out and he was alone. The good city workers of New York, done for the moment, wipe their brows and exchange some smiles and some words before driving away unceremoniously as if they do this every day as if this is a job and which they do and which it is. And one lone man in the back of an ambulance who is maybe not breathing and his only company are the two whose hands I see fluttering over his body as the vehicle leaves and makes my street black again, almost all black, at least eighty-five percent.
2-18-6-4-20-3-3-7-16-7-
and 1
(and 2)
and 85.
All come to roost in the city tonight between Manhattan and Brooklyn despite construction on the bridge. Hot heat of two islands perspiring onto themselves and each drop that falls is another person crammed into the subway car, another life working all day long, another soul restless for a place of overwhelming exactitude and unbridled excess. Tonight though I know one drop and one drop is a man without any mourners who we shut our windows on when it gets too hot to breathe.
I'm not really sure how to finish this one.
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