Des Fraises

One must ask children and birds how cherries and strawberries taste.  -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I've been tackling M.F.K Fisher's The Art of Eating for a few months now. I've finished Serve it Forth, Consider the Oyster, and How to Cook a Wolf. It has been, and continues to be, one of the best literary journeys I've had the pleasure of taking. For all you romantic foodies out there, pick up a copy and spend some time, preferably over some delicious bites and sips, losing yourself in her rhetoric. 

In Serve it Forth, M.F.K. discusses those food moments where things change in the mind and on the palate of a budding gourmand. Those moments when food transcends the molecular and nutritional certainty to unapologetically reveal a hidden potential. She discusses how these moments are often the simplest or most innocent encounters to start, a crust of bread during a hike, a fruit dried on a radiator, but somehow melt like a Dali painting into enlightenment.

I've had a few of these moments but I want to revive the pinnacle. Poignant because it was during those first few wild days of falling in love with Paris.  

Lettre de motivation

 non scholæ sed vitæ discimus

Dear Monsieur or Madame,
Looking at my CV you’ll see no mention of the heat of summer kitchens, the fluidity of a well-laid line, crisp starched tablecloths, or the labor of love that is the demand of the brigade. You’ll see office jobs held, projects managed, budgets accounted for, a winery to be fair, but only a one-dimensional picture of my pursuits. Food and drink are the hours between the words on that page. My escape from obligation. The breaths between client meetings and conference calls. My quiet moments kneading dough, separating eggs, sweating onions, or sweating over a soufflé.

The Eight Things You Need to Perfectly Poach a Stupid Egg

Whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all unless it's been whipped with whips. Just as a poached egg isn't a poached egg unless it's been stolen from the woods in the dead of night! -Roald Dahl

The poached egg is an elusive culinary beast. At best it requires practice, patience and a few extra eggs, at worst it creates a swirling storm of lost whites and a bobbing, lonely overdone yolk.

Being a fan of poached eggs on any dish, any time of day, naturally I approached poaching an egg with gusto and confidence. I knew what I was looking for: a tight, glossy white, smooth and singular, with a hidden sunburst of custardy yolk that we, like good taste and courtesy, should assume exist within one another. I did my homework researching the different methodology and myth and settled on ye olde vinegar splash and whirlpool approach.

Egg in hand and water properly swirled, I cracked directly into the water. A panicky Jackson Pollack looking moment later I had neither a perfectly poached egg nor my dignity. I fished out the soggy and stringy mess and set it aside on a disappointed paper towel. Deep breath. Back to the books and interwebs.

With Stars in Their Eyes: An Evening at Alinea

The night was brisk but what else would you expect for Chicago in April. Despite the windy chill, I was determined to wear a dress and determined this would be the meal to end all meals. 

Setting the Scene

My girl A and I have built a beautiful friendship around the dinner table. Our first real meal together was at Amada in Philadelphia; dining at an Iron Chef restaurant for your first meal is really a high bar to set. She was a picky eater to be kind and I was an adventurous eater to be fair. We ordered the chef's menu to save both of us the task of interpreting the menu and a new friend's unknown palette. It was at the lamb meatballs that our eyes met. She'll be the first to tell you that that was a turning point that sent her bounding down the path to full on foodie. And I'll be the first to admit she's surpassed me in a spectacular way.

We were known for celebrating milestones at the job we co-worked together with gifts and things. At some point we became aware of Alinea and decided we would go someday to celebrate our [many] achievements. We would dine there as the celebratory pats on backs that we warranted (wanted?). That was two years ago. We've been plotting patiently ever since.

Good Morning Beautiful: Why Midweek Breakfast Meet-ups Are Way Better than Lunch Dates

Expect problems and eat them for breakfast. - Algred A. Montapert 

Post dedicated to my own bodacious breakfast babe, KK.

Despite how consciously I attempt to leave the word 'busy' out of my vocabulary in favor of more meaningful reasons I can't commit to this or that, the fact remains, as a society we're all pretty damn busy. Our schedules are evolving faster than ever before as they travel with us in our pockets and are pliable at all times. We're accessible 24/7 via text, Whatsapp, Facebook messenger, Snapchat, Instagram, FaceTime, Hangouts or, if it's your grandma trying to set plans, by phone.  We're able to update our shared calendars at a whim with ease. The peppered, blocky look of my week on Monday is unrecognizable by Wednesday morning. When you aren't supposed to say 'no' to a client who wants to meet from 11:30 to 1:00 often you're forgoing social luncheons in favor of attempting to silently sip soup between mutings on yet another status meeting conference call from hell. Cue someone putting the whole call on hold so we're forced into silent appreciation of the latest muzak du jour. At least then I can slurp uninterrupted for a spell.

But what if you want to chat with your fav co-worker over a Monday macaroni or meet up with an IRL friend to gossip about your coworkers over a Tuesday tuna melt? Dining together, at the ancient level, was a matter of survival so it's no wonder in modern society, breaking bread with other human beings is such a noble and revered activity.

Never one to give up when facing an injustice, I've found a remedy that works for me and thwarts my lack of midday freedom.
The Breakfast Date. Bestie Breakfast. Bruh-kfest. Breckie with Bae...

The Heart of a Halophile

The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea. Isak Dinesen

My first order of business in starting a blog, was deciding how I wanted to introduce myself and this little corner of the internet. A few things came to mind. Three things to be exact. Butter, eggs and salt. The three items that are always overstocked in my home kitchen. The three items for which, if the par falls below acceptable levels, or gasp, falls to empty I feel a startling stagnation building around the fridge and pantry; one that I cannot ignore and remedy as quickly as possible.

Of the three, salt is my most loyal and accommodating friend and the one of which I've never run out. You can find salt in my kitchen in various locations and containers. There are zip-top baggies in drawers, pinch bowls of different shapes and colors dotting numerous flat surfaces, course salt rocks in grinders, flaky delicate snowflake salt in the salt pig, smoked in tins, blackened in pouches, pink, flavored, truffled and rare in tubes and jars nestled between thyme and cayenne. The current count of different kinds of salt in my house, tips the scale at 11. In past centuries this would have made me rich or at the very least admired.