I fell into the abyss of summer.
Merry Christmas, y’all!
I’d apologize for being late but Christmas is 12 days, so really, I’m in the clear.
I’m alive! Were you worried?
I have been running around every single weekend for the past two months and it does NOT lend itself to photographing meals or blogging. So I’m a bit behind and playing catch up now. Though it’s now technically autumn (yesssss), I’m here to finish up this year’s A Pinch of Summer series.
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.)
I’m a stickler for traditions. If we don’t eat the white lasagna on Christmas Eve or jump in the lake after our morning walks in Vermont, things just don’t feel right. You could accuse me of not liking change (and you’d be right), but I like to think of it as keeping things classic. And just because I like to keep things classic, doesn’t mean that I don’t like to try new things, too.
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.
Looking back at all my previous blog posts, I realize that I can come across as a little one-dimensional. This post will both reinforce that idea while also dispelling it. I can be a bit of a Vermont-loving, comfort food-makin’ one trick pony. I can’t help but be inspired by Vermont and I can’t help loving warm, comforting food. But I do, in fact, branch out. With the arrival of spring (or so I’m told. It’s currently snowing in NYC), comes my craving for fresh and healthy foods. What better way to welcome the spring than by making a big ole salad inspired by my trip to Vermont last weekend (is anyone really surprised)?
What kind of food do you make when you want to appear virtuous and wholesome after a rather hedonistic start to the weekend? You make panzanella. “What is panzanella?” some of you may be asking. It’s bread salad. A salad…based around bread. Um, YOU’RE WELCOME, EVERYONE.