Fennel and quartered onions sweat. Enter a healthy dash of coriander for good measure. A good glug of Grigio gets the crispy bits off of the bottom. My grandma’s enameled pot is a fickle mistress. Corn and potatoes are optional. The butter, however, is not. This isn’t a piece for vegetarians; you can read on, but some animals were hurt in the making of this piece. Bivalves to be specific.
I swear that the first greens of the spring come like a green sigh of relief. After damn near five months of winter, they release like the forest has been holding its breath all that time. Some folks aren’t a fan. They haven’t gone out to find them (and then failed).
I have a hard time deciding if there's a cruel irony to beauty or a lovely prologue to loss. When I feel the hem's of 2010s jeans wet with notch road grass, I wonder how many times I've left. I wonder how many times my grandfather felt it. When I fall ass over teakettle into a beaver pond, risking life, limb, and toxoplasmosis for a handful of native brookies, I hope for the same chance for my kids. I doubt its possible for them.
Eggs are sexy. I don’t care what anyone says, and if you don’t like eggs, you’re wrong (barring you poor souls with egg allergies, my heart bleeds for you). The stories about cooking eggs being used as an interview in great kitchens? Yup, it’s a thing. I almost had to make the maple poached eggs I covered in my post on maple for a stage once, and just the mention of the things got me the interview. What I’m saying is, eggs are no joke (insert pun here). My everyday breakfast food? Eggs, in some way shape or form. Rent meal staple? Eggs, in shakshuka or in a spicy cream sauce with chickpeas, and if you feel like it, prosciutto. My death row meal? Probably eggs, to be honest. Keep your lobster, truffles, and wagyu, and lay me down with a scramble or eggs Benny.
Some Andromeda traveler came through last night
A time machine for yesteryear eats friends and bottles jump intake.