this morning, and through the afternoon, it was classic rock on the radio (in its best and worst iterations) me, and the kitchen: humming, hemming, hawing; bustling & burbling.
made a big batch of creamy red beans with onion–sliced– & garlic–minced– cooked down with anchovy & thyme; threw in hot sauce, red wine vinegar, and oodles of late-afternoon-sun-colored extra virgin olive oil–glassy golden green, sharp, and exuberantly, after a couple of quick folds, making the beans still creamier.
made a salad with leftover green beans–cooked last night with some thick-sliced white onion–and sardines, anchovy, italian parsley, cucumber, mint.
made a batch of maple & olive oil granola with almonds, candied ginger and prunes.
there is something so peaceful–restorative, even–about just you and your wooden spoon & spatula, your stovetop, your salad bowl, your oven on low.
the week will bring every iteration of beans–with flatbread, on salad, topped off with feta or cold roast chicken or carrot salad.
but for now they’re cooling in the big orange dutch oven, and the granola is waiting to be transferred to mason jars. that salad packed with oily fish and fresh herbs, on the other hand, is long gone.
fog linen work / @odetosunday / not without salt / kisses sweeter than wine / john laurie / age old tree
lately, it’s been rainy, all the doom & gloom of late summer in mid-August, Texas. I know we have months of that cauterizing heat left, the ecstatic sun I irrationally, sentimentally hold dear, but right now it feels like fall is right around the corner.
in honor of the Parisian weather, I made lentil salad. Sunday morning woke up sleepy-headed and cooked up some thick-cut bacon, using stale bread to soak up the excess fat from the rashers like a paper towel laid down by one’s well-meaning, fool mother, and some more to sop up what was left in the cast iron; truly, a blissful seance.
then, I sauteed carrots, onions, garlic and parsley until tender & aromatic while I cooked up those gems of the legume family, those pretty little black beluga lentils. tossed them all together with a mustardy vinaigrette, adding floral tarragon and licorice-sweet basil and cow’s milk feta.
to be enjoyed with bacon, bacon grease, a crusty bread–even a humble loaf at death’s door!–and Tabasco, the only hot sauce suited for Parisian doom & gloom.
sweet-salty irish butter on a bagel.
oh, and buttery avocado mimicking the cool, smooth mouthfeel, with plenty of kosher salt, cracked pepper, and sambal oelek–the king of asian hot sauces, people.
rising early for the first time in weeks, to sun and blue skies, awake.
cream in my coffee. sun in the sky, you know how I feel.
digging the typography and general graphic genius of alaina sullivan right now, and, to the utmost, the work of sign-painter & illustrator extraordinaire stephen powers–do yourself a favor and check out his street art. fuzzy feels, wonder feels, wondrous feels.
have a lovely day, kiddos.
it’s been almost exactly one year since I wrote to you.
it’s been almost exactly one year since I wrote for myself.
and here we are. happy new year!
now, let me tell you a story:
once upon a time, I liked yogurt & fruit & granola for breakfast like any civilized person. but then I realized I could eat salad for breakfast–because I was a bonafide adult, independent and freewheelin’, so why the hell not–and all my civility went out the window.
I eat salad for breakfast almost every day. like this panzanella, with beets & roma tomato, red leaf & romaine, chickpeas, feta, and a sunny little boiled egg.
panzanella is one of my all time favorites–for anyone interested in mopping their plate with a hunk of bread, or sopping up soup, or really any instance of realizing the spongelike potential of a crusty loaf, panzanella is the salad for you.
it’s one of those vehicles (the mercedes W123 of foodstuffs, at once earnest and elegant) for slightly stale bread–which gets torn and baked into sizable croutons, which in turn soak up olive oil & tomato juices, and get lovely and pliant.
those savages, rebels & visionaries eating panzanella for breakfast (and lunch, and dinner) will live happily ever after.
the end–and the beginning of a year of writing.