Category Archives: Food

A Quest for the Best in Blandness

Right now my favorite cracker is the Organic Garlic Naan Crackers available at Trader Joe’s, but not everyone (anyone) wants to deal with that parking lot, and sometimes you just want something plain and simple. For those moments, I decided to conduct an entirely-unscientific poll on which bland cracker is the best and here’s how the results played out:

I figured the main battle would be between Triscuits and Ritz, and I’m not at all shocked that the Ritz came out on top. We are a bland bunch of cracker-eaters, but there’s something special about that salty and buttery Ritz that brings back happy childhood memories of crab dip and Cheese-whiz. We all started somewhere. 

In hindsight, I should have included Saltines in this survey, and maybe I will try again in a few weeks to see if that changes anything. Saltines for me were for sickness. Paired with ginger ale they seemed to be the cure-all for whatever we had as kids. That nostalgia factor might shake things up in the next poll… 

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Kindness Cookies by the Beekman Boys

The Beekman Boys have brought a sense of peace and calm and, of course, kindness, to this blog, and to the rest of the world, since they first moved upstate and started their goat milk business. This year they posted this Kindness Cookie recipe, which I recently made on a dark Sunday afternoon and evening. It filled the house with a heavenly aroma, and looks to be one of the workhorse cookie recipes that forms the base of any Christmas cookie platter that wants to stand slightly apart from all the others. 

This recipe uses only dark chocolate, but gives some extra sweetness with its diced dried cherries – a sweetness that is not cloying or too much (as sweetness tends to be at this culinarily-perilous time of the year). It’s a subtle shift into the next level of sophistication, as far as chocolate chip cookies go, and it’s a lovely treat to make in the next few weeks. Try it and see how you like it, then spread the joy among all your neighbors. 

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Friendsgiving 2023: The Main Ingredient

This fall marked the 25th anniversary of when I first met Kira. Our friendship has been an unlikely one in many respects – we actually lost touch for almost a decade when she moved to Florida – but when she returned and we found our way back to one another, it was one of those nudges of the universe that we have, despite some obstacles, managed to heed and nurture. When I first met her, she was one of the quietest people I’d known; shy and almost painfully introverted, she made me feel like a brash extrovert – something I most certainly wasn’t, even as I acted it out with precision. I must have brought out the fighting spirit in her too, as we soon engaged in battles of our own: she fought with me unlike she would have fought with anyone else at work, and I took it as a sign of friendship and trust, as she reserved those entanglements for her family. In the weird and twisted mindfuck that was my habit, I was flattered that she considered me family that way. Remember, we were both in our early-mid twenties, and knew little to nothing of how to behave in the world. Making the journey into maturity continues to be a theme in our adventures

For our musical accompaniment, I’ve chosen Shirley Horn’s ‘The Main Ingredient’ for its culinary references to go along with our Friendsgiving feasts, and an underlying hint of blues to go with our states of mind. First up is opening track ‘Blues for Sarge’, which sets the scene for the feast of charcuterie and appetizers which formed our first meal.

Now that Kira has managed to switch her work hours, she finishes up just a little while after I arrive in the city. On this night, we had a quick cup of Earl Grey tea, then went back out for some final ingredients for dinner. An intentionally campy collection of appetizers from my childhood formed the pillars of the meal – these campy meatballs, a cheesy crab dip, and some white bean bastardized hummus – and we finished it all with the cutting board of meats and cheeses you see here. For too many nights, Kira and I had feasted on something similar, only to have to struggle through reservations for dinner later in the night; we finally figured out, twenty five years into this, that our appetizer prelude was enough for the first evening. 

Catching up after a year apart only feels like a daunting task if you try to cram it all into the first hour of being together. We have enough experience coming together after extended periods away to know that such sharing unfolds slowly and naturally over the course of a weekend. For the first night of this Friendsgiving gathering, which would mostly consist of just the two of us, we settled back into our usual groove. 

Outside, the Braddock Park fountain was still running – we didn’t know it then, but this would be the last weekend it ran before being drained and shut down for the winter. We’d made it back just in time… 

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A Holiday Preview & Appetizer Recipe

Back in the days of hosting extravagant parties and wild soirees, I would channel Rosalind Russell in ‘Auntie Mame’ to strike just the right note of eccentric hostess pizzazz to help me get through the damn evening. Now that we no longer have big parties, I get to enjoy smaller and more intimate dinners and gatherings, but I still use Auntie Mame as a starting point of inspiration. 

We are about three weeks away from Thanksgiving (yeah, that left a sting thinking about it) and the start of the holiday season, so now is a good time to put a dent in my planning and preparations for whatever the fuck Christmas will be like this year. To that end, an appetizer is a great item to bring to whatever event you may be attending with friends and/or family. Below is a recipe for some appetizer meatballs that might be the easiest cheat recipe that still tastes good. First, a look at the super-secret ingredients that can be found in most decent markets (and every indecent market).

This dish once stood on a corner table, largely neglected by the crowd at our friend Bob’s Night-Before-Thanksgiving party that he used to hold in his place overlooking Washington Park. It was one of my favorite parties of the year, because it signaled the kick-off to the holiday season, and was hosted by one of the kindest and sweetest guys I know. On this particular evening, a crock pot of appetizer-sized meatballs bubbled away quietly, while the rest of the gay men ignored it, beelining for the bar. One gentleman stood nearby as I took one, and then two, and then multiple meatballs, marveling at their flavor. 

It was Bob’s Uncle, the man who had made them, and he whispered the recipe in my ear: one part grape jelly, one part chili, and one big package of bite-size frozen meatballs. My mind was blown, that such deliciousness could come form such an unlikely combination. It was one of those recipes that someone clipped from Good Housekeeping or Ladies Home Journal in the 50s or 60’s, then passed down through the generations because it tasted so good, but kept secret because its make-up was so basic. Over the years, I added some additional flavoring to bump things up, but the core remains the same, and the meatballs remain store-bought and frozen, because the flavor is enough to mask any shortcomings there. Try it out and see. 

RECIPE: The Holiday Meatballs of Bob’s Uncle

  • 1 large package frozen cocktail meatballs
  • 1 large container grape jelly
  • 1 large can chili (without beans)
  • 1/2 cup soy sauce
  • 1/2 cup rice wine vinegar
  • 1/4 cup white or brown sugar
  • 1 Tbsp chopped garlic

Combine ingredients in crock pot and cook on low for six to ten hours, stirring occasionally.

That’s it. That’s all. Auntie Mame would be proud, even if it’s not fishberry jam.

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Forgetfulness At 48

The featured photo here, of a fabulous slice of cinnamon bread from Bella Napoli (quite simply the greatest cinnamon bread in all of creation, no exaggeration) has been hovering about my desktop for the past two months. For all my limited efforts at finding a blog post in which it was utilized, I’ve come up empty-handed. I genuinely cannot remember if I’ve written a post about it, or put it on display here or somewhere on social media, and so it goes on the list of items that I’ve forgotten or never even knew – that tricky growing collection of things that prove I’m older than I ever intended to be, the mind rotting on its downhill trajectory, and gaining speed in the worst way. 

It looks like the picture was named ‘rainy day’ so I may have been planning a post that referenced that, and the cozy aspect of a piece of toast might have been the impetus for that. Or maybe I wanted to go into the many joys of a cinnamon bread so delicious – French toast and bread pudding and whipped room-temperature butter. I honestly don’t recall. 

So I Google myself. To be precise, I google “Alan Ilagan cinnamon toast” and this memory of my Gram is one of the first on the list. It’s followed by this memory from my days at Brandeis comes up. The next entry that appears is this write-up of a family brunch that went off with some work but no hitches. Happy recollections all of them, though I dare not press my luck by traveling any further down the Google path. I’ve seen what lies ahead, and none of it is pretty. 

Enjoy the toast.

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A Pot of Lentils

“I have emptied a pot of lentils into the ashes for you. If you have picked them out again in two hours’ time, you shall go to the ball with us.” ~ Into the Woods

This wonderful lentil soup recipe makes for a perfect fall meal. That something as simple as a pot of lentils, through heat and seasoning and some supplemental ingredients, should become something as delicious and sustaining as a soup is a wonder that will never disappoint me. Fall brings me back into the kitchen, back to the stove from which I generally shy away during the warm summer months. There is a comfort in that, and it reminds me of winters when a broken heart would only be healed through the warmth of a pepperoni tomato sauce. Food can heal that way. Cooking too.

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Harvesting Melons

A rather unremarkable cliffhanger finds satisfactory resolution here, as our cucamelon harvest has been as robust as anything else this summer (which is to say less than expected, but by the end we would take anything as a success). It’s been a wildly inconsistent summer, and quite frankly I gave up on everything halfway through it. Now that it’s harvest time, it all feels a little anticlimactic. The Anti-Climax, now that’s a song Taylor Swift needs to record, and I hope she puts some cucamelon into it. 

These little cucumbers look just like baby watermelons, and in the pics that will follow, I’ll scoop some up to give you some perspective on how small they actually are. Their taste is on the tart and sour side, which I happen to enjoy because I’m nothing if not tart and sour. Nobody brings out my sweet side now – that Alan can’t come to the phone anymore – ask Taylor

And so, in my hands rest little globules of tartness bordering on bitter, deceptively adorable, misleadingly cute, and tempting for all the wrong reasons. Try some, eat one… said the witch. 

Witches can be right… giants can be good…

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Meet Me in the City (With Macarons)

Come on and meet me in the city
Get your courage up and take the highway down
Put on the dress you wore the night we met
You and me are going to paint this town
We’ll go wild and seize the night…

My recent trip to New York begins at the denouement, with this little box of macarons from Ladurée, brought back to my husband as a treat from the new Moynihan Rail Station. To find such beauty and deliciousness in the heart of a train station is wonder and whimsy and wildness when you least expect it (especially if you’d been entering New York through the old Penn Station for decades). This trip would mark my first time back since the winter of 2020 – right before the world imploded – and I wanted it, and needed it, to be quiet and uneventful. 

Finding the quiet and uneventful in the madness that can be New York is a challenging quest in itself, yet somehow we always manage to locate such moments, sometimes conjuring them from will and wish and whim. This was a lovely trip and it feels finely fitting to tease it with this inviting post. Decadence is there for the taking, if you dare to take it, and if escape is to be found in a box of macarons, then let us have the macarons, every last one. 

Our train departs tomorrow – get rest tonight, if you can… 

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The Cliffhanger of a Cucamelon

A couple of years ago our neighbor Ken gifted us with a bowl of cucamelons – a Mexican cucumber that has a tart, almost lime-like flavor. It was a zesty taste of summer – bright, refreshing, and new – and it came in the most adorable packaging I’ve ever seen in a cucumber. About two inches long and one inch wide, they were small in size and stature, and their skin looked exactly like that of a watermelon, giving the impression of baby watermelons (hence one of their common names, mouse melon). The effect was utterly enchanting, and I’m not one who is typically impressed by anything especially precious. 

This year, I planted a large rectangular pot originally designated for tomatoes with about a dozen cucamelon seeds, hoping for a hefty harvest. They desire hot and sunny weather, and this season did not start off strong on either of those fronts. They sat in damp soil doing nothing for a couple of weeks. Only when I surrounded their support stakes with plastic wrap (as a preventative measure against a chipmunk or squirrel that had been digging there) and created a greenhouse effect did they begin taking off.

Lately, they’ve enjoyed the hot and humid weather we’ve been having in between thunderous rainstorms. We’ve been pampering them a bit, rolling their planter beneath the canopy whenever rain threatens as they are still in danger of rotting if the soil gets too waterlogged, then pushing it back out into the sun, where they can bake and grow. Right now they have just reached the top of the tomato fences, so I added four bamboo stakes to allow them additional height and support. It’s not the prettiest concoction, but it seems to be satisfying their preference for something to grab onto. 

This past week, we witnessed the first bloom – a tiny little yellow flower that came with a bulbous base that will soon turn into the cucamelon if all goes well. Supposedly this will happen in seven to ten days from the time the bloom appears, which seems too good to be true. I’ll keep you posted on the progress ~ a cliffhanger the likes of which hasn’t been seen since ‘Dallas’ had the world asking, “Who shot J.R.?” Stay tuned… (and blessings and good health to anyone who is old enough to remember that reference). 

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Things My 47-Year-Old Body Can’t Handle Anymore

Please God may this not be an ongoing feature, but for the moment it’s Buffalo chicken wings. Andy introduced me to the glory of the Buffalo chicken wing back when we met twenty-three years ago, and in my mid-twenties my stomach could handle them with nary a gurgle.

Fast-forward to today, and I need two solid days (and as many bowel movements) to recover from eating a batch of them. No matter how healthy I trick myself into thinking they might be (because celery sticks) I simply have to face the sad fact that a fried piece of chicken doused in hot sauce and blue cheese dressing will never be good for me. 

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Going to War For Lunch

Quiet Fridays in downtown Albany are a secret, almost-enjoyable, aspect of summer that I’m hoping to keep mostly to myself, so don’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. My preferred method of working at the office involves as few people as possible, as quiet and peaceful an atmosphere as possible, and the least bit of trouble and interaction as possible. It makes sense then that one of my favorite days to work is the day after Thanksgiving, when almost no one else is at the office, and I can catch up on things that have evaded me for the previous eleven months.

On a smaller scale, Fridays in summer afford the same absence of people and activity in downtown Albany, and we had a peek of that yesterday, when a delightfully sunny and perfectly 71-degree day afforded me an opportunity to walk up the hill (State Street) and try out the Albany War Room Tavern for the first time. Renowned Executive Chef Yasuo Saso makes a welcome return to the Albany restaurant scene, and was the main draw for my lunch-time journey.

From their social media pages alone, my mouth has been watering whenever I happen upon a post featuring some gorgeous sushi or steak creation, and after hoofing it up State Street I was hungry and ready. “Peace, Love & Sushi” glowed in neon writing above the sushi station, while Chef Saso could be heard methodically chopping up all the delicious goodness that was in my immediate future. The sound had a calming effect – something soothing and consistent in the midst of what can often be a hot and harried downtown Albany scene.

Framed memorabilia of political and historical figures reminded of all that has gone down in this 1890’s brownstone building, but, warring political factions aside, the lunchtime vibe was calm and cool, and the two rolls I ordered – an Authentic Spicy Crab roll and a Spicy Devil roll of tuna and caviar – made for a light yet filling lunch. I would have gone for a third, but I’d have had to roll down the hill to get back to work. Two were just enough for lunch; we’ll be back for a full dinner soon to try out more indulgences. For now, this was the perfect entry into what may become a Friday afternoon summer tradition.

{The Albany War Room Tavern is located at 42 Eagle Street – check out their website here.}

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The Beauty of A Bundt

What is it about a bundt cake that makes it seem to taste so much better than any other cake? Is it the visual sumptuousness and simplicity of the shape? The dribble of glaze that said shape provides for such regular rivulets? We eat more than we think with our eyes. 

This basic bundt is the Harvey Wallbanger cake, the recipe of which may be found here. It’s worth a try (and if you don’t have the Galliano on hand, because no one really does, a Sambuca or Yellow Chartreuse makes a fine substitute). For this one, in place of the 3/4 cup orange juice that keeps this sweet and moist, I took the time to squeeze a few Mandarins that made it even better than I remember. 

Happy Bundting!

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What’s the Date Again?

For all those who have already celebrated today’s date, I give you this mouth-watering image of a chocolate chip cookie. Yes, it’s already halfway gone, perhaps not unlike you, and though I’m not currently having an old-fashioned pot party here myself, absolutely no judgment to those who are. Happy 4/20 everybody! 

(If you want further visual munchies, check out this post. Yum-yum!)

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Mind Blown By An Egg

Forty-seven years into this life it’s difficult to find any revelations that profoundly shift the make-up of the man I’ve become in all that time. Every once in a while, however, there comes a situation that does shift everything I thought I knew, and on Friday night that came from a discussion with Suzie about eggs. Apparently it makes me look like a complete and total ass (I’m paraphrasing Andy) but that sort of jolt is good for a perfectionist Virgo who up until a few years ago genuinely believed he could do little to no wrong. My how times have changed…

All my life, I’ve assumed that eggs just came in one basic size. I’d only half-noticed the large and extra-large and Grade A markings on the cartons, and to be honest I just thought those were marketing strategies, like ‘World’s Greatest Butter’ or ‘Extra-large pumpkins’. Whenever I saw a recipe that called for one large egg, I would simply open the fridge and look for the largest egg I could find and use that. It always worked

Imagine my shock to find that ‘large’ and ‘extra-large’ were two very different and distinct egg sizes/weights, and there were more too, like ‘medium’ and ‘jumbo’. Perhaps you can’t imagine such a thing, because neither could Suzie. In fact, when the topic came up, there was a good five-minute period of wild confusion, as she was talking about ‘large’ eggs in the apparently traditional sense, while I was talking about large eggs as eggs that happened to be on the large size. Finally I blurted out, ‘What do YOU mean by jumbo eggs?’ and that’s when we realized my folly. Forty-seven years of thinking eggs came in one size came screeching to a stunned halt. 

Immediately, I texted everyone I knew with the simple ask of “What is a large egg?” Some would rightfully wonder if I’d started drinking again. One told me to go to bed. Most didn’t understand the question, because all of them had learned, not sure where, that eggs were sized and labeled differently. Small consolation came on social media, where most people thought I was kidding, a few thought I was ridiculous, and just a smidge said they were on my side and always thought eggs came in one size too. 

Suzie and I were trying to figure out how I could have baked so many things without incident (more or less) over the years, and I said in exasperation that I’d only ever seen a recipe call for large eggs. I’ve never seen one that used jumbo eggs or medium eggs – had I noticed that I might have made the connection. But unfailingly, all the recipes I’ve ever made required ‘large’ eggs. The reason it always worked, as we found out, is because Andy has only ever stocked the fridge with ‘large’ eggs. Another happy accident that avoided unhappy accidents. 

Suzie and I drove along the rainy, dark roads in shocked and shook fashion, each trying to wrap our heads around things for different reasons. The next day I stopped in the market to confirm it, and there they were – all differently sized and labeled – medium and jumbo and extra large and small. 

I’m still processing… 

 

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A French Omelette Fail

They make it look so easy on those Instagram reels and TikTok dreams, but when I try something like this ‘super simple’ French omelette, it sticks to the pan, burns to the consistency of a rubbery frisbee, and tastes like French bulldog shit. There is a Sunday morning lesson here (aside from not walking away from eggs to check your text messages) and it comes with the posting of these decidedly-imperfect photos

The vast majority of posts that go up here are highly curated and edited, cropped within an inch of their lives (and sometimes my dick) to the point that everything looked deceptively pretty and enchanting – even the darker stuff. Well, that’s not really true to life. It’s true to the spirit of this site, and the idea of aspiration, but I never liked to sugarcoat, so in the ongoing quest to embrace and accept our inherent imperfection, this post shows that failure is part of the game. 

I will try this again – though not for a day or two given the price of eggs. I ate this one, most of it, because it was edible, just not very good. There another lesson there too: accepting what’s good enough rather than tossing it out and trying to achieve something great. 

Bon appe-fucking-tit. 

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