stovetop, salad bowl, low oven

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

lately, I’ve been into the quiet life. a glass of wine on the porch. reading about life on a northern farm with plenty of soft light and sprinkles. listening to the radio rather than absorbing all the white noise on a front page through stinging eyes; rather, letting it take on the appropriate medium, tuning in & out as need be.

lately, I’ve been buying swathes of leafy greens, leaving the kitchen door open to let in an early spring as I wash & dry and sauté them, and eating them with cold roast chicken and crusty bread. I’ve remembered cooking in new york, where I shopped at farmer’s markets and took long walks and braised all those pretty vegetables in copious amounts of olive oil–and that’s about it. and I relished the aloneness, the quietude, the simplicity of my small life in that big city.

lately, I’ve been contemplating the serenity of cats, and burying myself in books, and trying, mostly, to be as peaceful and full of grace and graciousness as possible.

molly yeh / paris review