It's not even October yet and my friends were already expressing pumpkin spice fatigue yesterday. I have just the antidote: ginger, turmeric, cumin, coriander, fennel, some lime juice and a chile.
Over the summer, my husband and I took turns taking our son to out for dinner one a week night to give him a break from (I mean, not to point fingers or anything) the occasionally yelling/food-flinging dinnertime antics of The Interloper, a.k.a.
September is my favorite in food, weather and outlook. The number of days above 90 degrees finally peters off.
I had lunch with Julia Turshen a couple months ago (mostly so I could fangirl out and try to sponge up some curl tips for my moppet) and one of my favorite things she told me was that when she moved from Brooklyn to upstate with her wife her cooking changed because all of a sudden she was doing it everyday.
Look, no one is ever going to marry me for my pavlova. (I mean, talking about dodging a bullet…) This one was particularly underachieving.
We are still in Portugal, which means, look away now. We are total blissed-out bores. The ridiculous truth of this vacation is that all the planning of it went down with the other family we are with when I was neck-deep in a book deadline and my husband had a bit of extra free time earlier this summer so I outsourced 100% of the decisions to them.
I enjoy chopping things but have no notable knife skills, no tuck, no game, but no shame either.
[Get the recipe for Even More Perfect Blueberry Muffins right here] Since we rolled out the redesign, I've been flagging recipes in the archives I can't stand looking at the pictures of anymore with plans to reshoot them.
A thing I have learned over the last 10 years (!) here is that people have fairly bifurcated opinions of eggplant.
Although I will happily eat burrata -- that lush mozzarella-on-the-outside, creamy-ricotta-center cheese from Puglia's Razza Podolica's cows by way of skillet craftsmen -- with a knife and fork, quartered on a plate, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic, flaky sea and pepper with or without a few tiny tomatoes all around and sometimes even some basil from this day until the end of days and never want for anything else, two small things about this will forever plague me: this is an expensive undertaking and when I'm done, I will still probably be hungry for dinner.
Once upon a time there was a boy and a girl, happy and in love. He liked chocolate and cheesecake and peanut butter and coffee and she, rather luckily for him, liked to bake.
If you go to Mexico City and leave without a pressing, relentless craving for melon, or really just about any fruit, sprinkled with tajín (salsa en polva), a branded seasoning powder comprised of chiles, lime and salt, I think you need to go back because you did it wrong.
When I moved to New York City 16 years ago I am pretty sure that on some level I believed if I went far enough above 14th Street with money I did not have, I'd reenter some gauzy version of New York from the past, you know, stuffy restaurants with tufted leather banquettes, paintings in gilded frames, black and white tiled floors and stories about when Sinatra was a regular.
Stop what you're doing. Dinner tonight is the very best kind there is: it has five ingredients including the ones to make the pizza dough.
For some of us, classic French toast -- not particularly French or toasted, to be honest, unless we're speaking of pain perdu -- is sufficient on a weekend morning to make it feel exceptional.
This is not a recipe for eggplant caviar, but caught up in an adoration of July eggplants too lovely to roast just to grind up, it is loosely inspired by it.
That was close. We almost went half the summer without a new pie recipe. I do solemnly swear to never let that happen.
Oh, hi, I am ready for summer now. What did I miss? Because the first half of this summer was so busy — a manuscript due, a redesign set off into the world, a birthday, and a zillion other bits of happy work/life chaos — I’m in this funny position of looking up for the first time mid-July and realizing that no mysterious person has arrived while I was buried in winter recipe testing and font fine-tunings and filled my freezer with popsicles, put a bowl of heirloom tomatoes on the counter, ready for their caprese closeup [realistically, this doesn’t happen even if I had been paying attention, but let me enjoy this rose-colored Pinterest fantasy just the same] and beach?