Whatcha gonna do? Come at me, Ko-Bros.
I added powdered sugar to the sour cream in the famous Ko Jello Salad.
Oh, and I didn’t have any bananas on hand so it’s banana-less.
Yeah, I already ruined Thanksgiving 2020.
Run and tell that, Schmoo-bear.
[That’s powdered sugar, about to be mixed into the sour cream. Blasphemy. Pure Turkey Day blasphemy.]
Pati Jinich introduced the guajillo pepper to me, and since then it’s been favorite addition to fall and winter soups, adding just the sort of humble heat necessary to warm the stomach on the coldest days. I didn’t fall any particular recipe for this casual mix – just added some tomatoes (the last from the garden), a few tomatillos, an onion, some garlic, and a dried guajillo pepper. Boiled and blended with a couple of garlic cloves, salt and pepper, then added some fresh cilantro and tortilla chips for dipping. It was a perfect – and quick – dinner for a dreary fall day. Keeping things simple, flavorful, and just a bit spicy is the best recipe for a gray world on the verge of winter.
It isn’t so much the soup itself that provides solace – though its warming properties and savory sustenance do provide physical comfort – it is the act of making the soup that renders it a practice of peace. When done correctly, a good soup isn’t created instantly – it takes time and care and time and practice and time. Soup is all about time. So are dreary fall mornings when the rain won’t let up, and overcast days are all that’s in the forecast for the next few days.
Soup has a certain magic to it as well – the way a big pot of plain water can transform into something wondrous with some carrots, celery and onion. A holy trinity indeed. Add a few pieces of chicken (bones and skin for glory), some salt and pepper, and a trio of bay leaves, and you’ve got yourself a perfect fall meal. A slow boil for an hour or so, or maybe more if you like it falling off the bones like I do, and that’s all it takes. As it gently works to extract the flavor and fat from the chicken, and the magic of the bay leaves permeates the liquid as it grows more golden in color, a simple chicken soup takes shape.
The pocket of time in which it comes together can be used to read or write a blog post or simply ruminate on the passing of fall. I topped it with some fresh cilantro because that’s my business. Like so and like that.
After a few rough days of non-stop news-watching, I awoke just before my work day at home was about to begin, checked my phone, and saw that my friend Lorie had sent a message that her husband Cal had dropped off doughnuts. Rushing to the front door, I saw the bags from Bella Napoli and my heart jumped with joy and gratitude. My stomach rumbled as I hurriedly brought them in, setting them out on a plate for these pictures before devouring one in giddy glee.
The initial flush of excitement and happiness was tempered, however, and not in a totally bad way, as I thought of all the dinners and gatherings with Cal and Lorie that we normally would have had over the past few months were it not for the Covid state of the world. A brief pang of melancholy came over my quick sugar high. The sweetness still on my tongue, I was touched that Cal had stopped by to leave breakfast – a reminder that friendship can still hold true and steadfast even in the tenuous times of connection in which we are currently immersed.
It was a sweet start to the morning, a flavorful souvenir from dear friends, and a happy pause for memories of our time together. I sent up a silent wish and prayer for the chance to do it again someday soon. Thank you Cal and Lorie!
Every 12 or 14 years or so, I get a hankering for a corn dog, and so I have one. I don’t give much thought to what constitutes a corn dog, which is probably why I can stomach them. When you think about it, they’re rather bizarre. Best not to dwell. I’m good for another dozen years.
I don’t recall ever actually having pancakes for dinner so when my friend Lorie gave us some Stonewall Farmhouse Pancake Mix and Wild Maine Blueberry Syrup it felt like the time had come. I’ve had some unpleasant pancake trials and tribulations in the past, so they’re always a crap shoot, but this time they turned out – more deliciously appealing to the stomach than the eyes perhaps (I’m a pancake novice/destroyer, so I’m really just thankful they didn’t burn up).
These fluffed up beautifully, and I added some fresh blueberries to the mix to match the syrup. I also think I figured out what was going wrong on those previous attempts, and it’s a neat little reflection of life in general: previously the griddle/skillet/pan was too hot. The moment anything hit the pan, it smoked and burned and died on the spot. The batter on top remained uncooked, so by the time those beautiful bubbles started forming, the bottom was burnt and the top was woefully raw. This works wonders when I’m searing tuna or steak, but it’s not the ideal setting for a pancake.
Today, I keep the heat on a medium to low setting. Not needing to rush anything, I’ve honed the art of patience – even the simple amount of patience it takes to let the bubbles form as the bottom turns slowly into a golden brown – and a sense of moderation when it comes to the heat. There is a serious life lesson in that, and I’m just learning it and putting it into play.
As for serving these as dinner, there’s a lesson in that as well, and it’s one that 2020 has beaten into us no matter how much we have fought against it. Go with the flow. Be amenable to change, even when it means switching up traditions and practices that have gone on for decades. Be open to new things, new paths, new ways to discovery. That may be an even bigger lesson, especially this year.
One more lesson: pancakes are filling. Even for dinner. And they’re always worth it.
Those three words go beautifully together, especially since we’ve turned the season to fall. I only half-facetiously posted on social media that I consider a cider doughnut to be the dietetic and nutritional equivalent of an apple, so this works in a diet. Mind over waist size.
As for these beauties, it was the scent of them frying that first alerted me to their presence as I perused the plants at George’s on a recent weekend morning. I knew immediately what they were, and was powerless to resist. Of course the minimum in a box was ten, but even then it was a battle with Andy over who would get the most. (I think I may have edged him out by one – well, two if we’re doing the real math.)
Such delights are the recompense for fall. Cozy comforts. Heat balms. Solace for sinister weather. When COVID first hit at the end of winter, I began baking a bit more, which took a backseat when summer arrived and the grill beckoned. Now that fall is here, and focus returns to the interior, I’ll warm up the oven again, with breads and cookies and crumbles. I finally managed to find some yeast so risable breads are again on the agenda. The season of comfort food is at hand. (Now let’s get it in my belly.)
At the turn of summer, attention shifts from the outside back into the kitchen, and comfort food is tantalizingly on the horizon. After some cajoling (maybe begging) by me, Andy made the first batch of lasagna that we’ve had in months – and it was more than worth the wait and the want. Using his own sauce, and some fancy beef and sausage, along with some magically-seasoned ricotta, Andy fashioned a dinner that was perfectly delicious in every way. There’s something very comforting when he steps into the kitchen to work his magic.
My pants may not be happy about it, but my mouth is ecstatic.
Out of the three varieties of tomatoes we tried this year, only these cherry tomatoes came to any serious fruition – and boy were they serious. For the two of us, one single plant provided more than enough cherry tomatoes for salads and snacks and even a Virgin Mary. Next year we will do two containers of these, and forego trying to grasp at the elusive glory of the Beefsteak ones. Andy could make some great summer sauce from the cherries if we get a slightly larger harvest.
This year I kept it simple, focusing on their flavor by popping a couple in my mouth on my rounds around the backyard, or slicing up a bunch for an afternoon snack, drizzled with some Balsamic vinegar and freshly-ground pepper. The joys of summer need not be extravagant or complicated.
The picture hardly does it justice, but after sixteen hours of intermittent fasting the chicken sandwich from Popeyes is probably the most foodgasmic moment I’ve had in years. There’s nothing left to say.
Oh wait, fuck Chick-fil-A – who wants to taste hate?
The brown turkey fig I managed to overwinter from last year put on a beautiful show of foliage beginning in spring, and started fruiting in the past few weeks, but it was the new fig tree I bought earlier this summer that provided the first ripe figs (and likely the only ones – we simply don’t get the right climate to bring them to full fruition).
I plated them up and enjoyed them without any frills or accompaniment, focusing on their delicate flavor and savoring them unadorned. Stripping things back to their essence is another good lesson of the past few months. Beauty resides in simplicity.
Tastes evolve and mature, and these days I prefer dark chocolate to milk, so this bar of dark chocolate studded with almonds, pistachios, candied citrus, goji berries and cranberries is a thing of delicious beauty. I found it at Eataly, and their sweet treat section is just about the most dangerous thing for me right now. That said, dark chocolate has its benefits, so we shall focus on that. Everything in moderation, and blah, blah, blah…
Chocolate is one of those things that makes me feel better, and if that’s wrong then let me be wrong until the day I die. A sweet treat is mandatory after an afternoon meal.
The first time I remember eating dill dip and rye bread was at a party at the Ko home. It was summer, and one of Suzie’s older brothers had graduated. They were so much older than us that their stories and lives operated on a level beyond what our focus could hold. We found our own fun, exploring the gardens and the carriage house, behind which chickens used to live. There was an element of danger to them, lending excitement to the lower driveway, and as our parents mingled with their friends, we passed the time near the big rubber tire filled with ice and soda cans. A red and white checkered tablecloth fluttered in the wind, and on it stood a round rye filled with dill dip. Alternately hiding under the long table, and popping up to pop some bread an dip in our mouths, we did what kids did and blended into the background, literally disappearing beneath the food table while adults did what adults did – the mystery of which I’m still not sure I’ve figured out.
Ever since that day, dill dip and rye bread has been a favorite party food, something I serve faithfully at all our gatherings – a classic slice of Americana that I’ve spread about to friends and family. It’s one of those dishes that I’ve toyed with taking a break from, but that would cause a revolt, and sometimes it’s easier to acquiesce than try something new.
This summer, without a gathering or opportunity for making it, I found myself missing its tangy creamy richness, so I made a quick batch and sat by the pool nibbling on it and remembering parties of the past. Here, at long last, is the simple recipe I use. It can be changed up and revised as you see fit – this is what has worked for me. The key is mixing it up and tasting it AFTER it’s had a chance to sit and meld.
Combine all the ingredients and mix well, then chill. Taste after a few hours to adjust seasonings as needed. Carve out a round rye bread, saving and roughly chopping the bread for dipping. (I usually get a couple of loaves of rye bread for dipping, and double the recipe for parties. We eat the leftovers for breakfast the day after a get-together.)
Summer demands the indulgence of nostalgia.
The idea came to me as a wave of loneliness washed over me in the pool. Paddling by myself in the deep end, I looked up to the darkening sky as the evening lowered its light. I tried thinking back to the last time I’d gone to the movies, but I couldn’t remember. Somewhere in Skip’s repository of movie knowledge and memories he will have the recollection. Instead, I asked if Andy would pop a batch of popcorn, and I sat down in the shallow end and ate the entire bowl, savoring each kernel as the aroma brought back all the fun and laughter of movie nights out.
Along those same lines, I’ve recently been craving dill dip – which would have been a staple at our summer gatherings, but that we’ve not had a reason to make this entire year. I might put together a small batch and find a little round rye to rekindle memories of parties from the past.
Maybe it’s not the silly dishes I’m craving as much as the company, and maybe this new collection of comfort food is how we’ll make do until we can have company again.
Like certain songs or musical motifs, certain food brings me back to a specific place in time and circumstance, recalling memories from a life that seemed so long ago, when really it’s only been a matter of months. The world has shifted remarkably in those months, however, and the shift may be more permanent and lasting than any of us can fathom or make motions to understand. This wasn’t meant to get so deep so quickly, and for a Wednesday morning post it may break the week in half before we even cross the formal hump. It’s really just meant to describe the joy and melancholy I experienced as I assembled this simple summer snack of apricots and prosciutto.
The last time I enjoyed the sweet and salty combination was when I was visiting Boston with Andy last summer. I’d stopped at Eataly for provisions and found a little container of apricots, along with some impossibly-thin prosciutto that you could practically see through – ribbons of salty pink glory for citrus-hued sweetness. We took our places at the table overlooking Braddock Park and slowly ate our way through the apricots and meat. This is what other people get to do, I thought at the time. Other people being those with the money and leisure and luxury I’d never have. Back then, and it was only a few months ago I have to keep reminding myself, comparative living was how I went about things, hence a nagging, gnawing sense of dissatisfaction, even when I ate the things more fortunate people ate, even when I wore their cologne, or walked in their fancy shoes.
Today, I savor the apricots and prosciutto on my own, not bothering with comparisons to other people. It’s a more peaceable and happy existence to focus solely on the sensation of a ripe apricot bursting with its juicy, ripened flesh, paired so spectacularly with the soft, savory flavor of the prosciutto. It’s more fun to appreciate what I have on its own merit instead of wondering how it compares to those around me. That’s a fundamental shift in my own perspective that has changed in the past few months. In some ways, the change came just in time, just as the world was shifting its paradigms with gigantic effects. Again, I didn’t mean to plummet so deeply into chasms so rife with relatively unexplored shadows. Luckily, there is beauty here, a more subtle and shaded beauty perhaps, the sort that must be held a little longer, heard only in the silence and stillness that a certain state of calm confers.
