I’ve been looking for you. Where have you been?
Seat 21A. I like the window.
Oh, so you mean you’re in Limbo.
That’s one way of putting it.
How’s the food in Limbo?
You would ask.
The Reindeer Burguignon in Svalbard was a little tough, but tasty.
I thought you had sworn off reindeer.
You’re thinking pork. I swore off pork in high school, remember?
Not really, but, I’m guessing you cheated when you saw Black Pudding for breakfast near Loch Ness?
Guilty as charged. And don’t forget the Cotechino with Umbrian Lentils.
That was the one you had at the Vatican? With the pope, right?
No, by Cathy Whims at a pop up dinner in Greenwich Village. His Excellency was in the mood for flank steak, with chimichurri…. his mother’s recipe.
Does H. E. know you’re not a believer?
Do you know I am a believer?
The presence of god in a salad of pomegranates, fresh figs, sheep’s cheese, toasted pine nuts, and tender lettuce.
The very one.
And now you’re going to tell me the two of you were on Mount Olympus.
In the vicinity. Then she resurfaced in late-December, in Fresno, as a voluptuous persimmon.
Love, she’s such a shape-shifter.
With bacon and blue cheese, she’s even in a purple Brussels Sprout.
My mother. My daughter. They’ve been talking about a cauliflower mash they recently made. They text about it.
At a Lilliputian shared-plate outpost in Providence, Rhode Island—curiously named North despite being located in the southwestern section of the city—as our group’s bottoms are just nestling into five of the eighteen coveted seats we’ve been on our feet almost an hour waiting for, my son, a regular, pronounces that first and foremost we will be ordering the Spicy Cauliflower in Various Forms. It sounds like a camp-ey horror film. Read more…
COMMENTS 6 comments.
I was a sous-chef at six, at the James Beard House no less. Don’t believe me? That’s because you haven’t met my mother. As one of Mr. Beard’s cooking school graduates, she deployed what she learned from the culinary giant to transform our tiny townhouse kitchen into a battlefield canteen, and conscripted my sister and me as soldiers in her years-long campaign to outperform every dinner and party hostess in Manhattan. While you were watching Gilligan’s Island, I was tearing from peeling onions, or dressing an oven burn. While your parents were prattling to their friends about your precocious choice of kidneys off a French menu, my mother was persuading Oscar, our reluctant Madison Avenue butcher, to order the succulent morsel of lamb that we would wield to floor a visiting London gourmet. No, we didn’t cook him the brain, or some gland. We fed him the fetus.
COMMENTS 10 comments.
Did you just eat tongue?
I did, at Taqueria el Bajio on Milpas Street. It’s digesting now.
Why can’t they do tacos like that in New York?
Dunno. I don’t get it. What’s so complicated about a soft corn tortilla, chunks of spongy tongue meat, onions, and cilantro?
I hate cilantro.
So does my mother. It’s genetic, you know.
I read that. Did you see that kohlrabi is the new kale?
That’s debatable. Have you ever eaten kohlrabi? I think broccoli may be the new kale.
Hype. Broccoli can be whatever it wants now. It has a press agent.
Maybe my blog needs a press agent.
You write a blog?
Sporadically. I was posting pretty often, but then my life kinda…..
Excuses, excuses. Heard ‘em all.
No really, now I’m committed.
How’s this for the start of a post? Once upon a time, a girl came back to America from a faraway land, bought a taco truck, moved to Brooklyn…
Well, that’s one idea. Keep thinking….
COMMENTS 5 comments.
All 10 of you. Or 110? Whoever you are, thank you for reading.
I migrated myself to the US recently, which went relatively smoothly. Migrating this blog was another matter. Some of you alerted me you received duplicates of old posts. All comments on the most recent post, The James Beard House, disappeared, along with the post itself.
Then the whole site disappeared, and while I saw metaphor in a vanished past, I was bummed, until a technician at GoDaddy who owed me no favors took a deep breath, dove down into the site, and surfaced ninety minutes later with the sunken treasure.
I’ve been holding my own breath, and thank each of you who has encouraged me to keep writing.
Exhale, then post.
Again, thanks for reading…….
COMMENTS One comment.