
Well, well, well.
Here she is, referring to herself in the third person and pulling the same bullshit as always.
Continue readingWell, well, well.
Here she is, referring to herself in the third person and pulling the same bullshit as always.
Continue readingI’m looking at a dime-sized burn on my wrist, feeling like a real-life, serious, cooks-everything-on-the-grill griller.
I thought I’d pop in for a quick post now that farmer’s markets are getting ready to start up for the season. With my move to Bed-Stuy, I’m much closer to the Grand Army Plaza year-round farmer’s market and I’ve started taking nice, leisurely walks over on Saturdays. It’s all very quaint and adult of me.
I fell into the abyss of summer.
Well, Memorial Day Weekend has come and gone and I’m so happy it’s the start of another summer season.
Listen up, y’all. I have something important to say. Just because it’s Sunday and you’re all alone, that doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself a Sunday night feast. And just because it’s 90 degrees and brutal outside, that doesn’t mean your feast can’t include a roast chicken. I won’t let any of that stop me. No way, no how. Either way I’m roasting a chicken. (You can expect this to be the title of my first memoir.)
Back in mid-May, I made what very well may be the last meal I cook in my home of 16 years. My parents are selling our house. Just like baking chocolate or revenge, it’s bittersweet. After living in five different states all while under the age of 10, we finally landed in New Jersey, where I did most of my growing up and where I learned how great bagels really are. In that house, we’ve said goodbye to dear pets and we’ve welcomed new ones. On our street, I learned how to drive in a car that was recently, after 17 years, traded in for a pick-up truck. (I’m still laughing about how my dad parks his new truck behind his cream-colored Mini-Cooper with racing stripes.) Through the years, I’ve left our pretty, grey house for multiple adventures to Europe and across the U.S. Over almost two years in Brooklyn, I’ve gone back often to spend quiet weekends in the suburbs with my parents and my pets. And, in our home’s kitchen, I’ve learned how to cook.
I love being a grown up. Sure, some aspects are the worst, like taxes. But the freedom of choice you have as an adult is fantastic. I particularly enjoy deciding what I want to cook and when. If I want to fry pumpkin doughnuts the day after eating an undisclosed number of chicken nuggets, I can. If I want to wake up hungover to make homemade “breakfast handpies” (read: pop tarts), I can. And if I want to make certain dishes that my mother tells me to for Easter weekend, I can do that too.
This right here is a perfect leftover dish. You can use almost any leftovers you have in a quiche, and quiche itself makes for great, no-fuss leftovers. I went so far as to use a leftover store-bought, pre-made pie crust (we’re not getting super fancy here – we’re cooking with what we have on a weeknight). Or, at least, I tried to use a leftover pre-made crust. It was from a year and a half ago (from that French week of cooking that I somehow keep talking about) and when I unrolled it, it crumbled everywhere. UGH. What I had hoped would be an easy evening was, like the pie crust, crumbling around me.
Let me begin at the beginning.