Risotto takes time. Not arduous time like, for instance, childbirth. Time, like the mediation portion of your yoga class, time.
Sizzle arborio rice in olive oil and then let the liquid incorporating dance begin. You could do this in your sleep or while striking a tree pose. read more
Clinging to summer like a peach to a pit, we’re cherishing backyard tomatoes, outdoor grilling, white mozzarella before Labor Day. Even though I hear morning carpool honks around the neighborhood and homework has begun, I’m in disbelief that summer is coming to a close. I’ve cooked with tomatoes so often that I swear I’m ODing on lycopene. read more
You’re looking for satisfaction without calories. Something you can reach for in a fit of hunger say mid-afternoon or mid-this minute. Something that makes you ignore the Dulce de LecheHäagen-Dazs who whispers your name from the freezer as if whispers don’t affect thighs. Something that makes you feel like you’ve had a real treat, one you deserved because that thing at work just got worse and those kids at home, well they just got worse. Let me introduce you to seeded, salted chocolate that you make in a nano-second and horde at the back of the refrigerator so they others can’t find it.
Why not just a chocolate bar you ask? Well…
After returning from summer camp, Griffin declared June is like Friday, July is Saturday and August is ..Sunday (sigh, pout). Summer’s not over and August is no school night, dude. With that I declared – confident I am the most fun mom on the planet – it’s barbecue week. Wait, he didn’t expect whitewater rafting and espionage games did he? He did. Sullen but hungry, he devoured Chicago-style char dogs, ate grilled pizza, tolerated cedar-smoked salmon, and gagged over grilled branzino – note to parents serving whole fish: cut the heads off not in front of children. I didn’t dare sock him in the kisser with a turkey burger enhanced by all the genius ideas of America’s Test Kitchen – that would be for Dan and me. read more
Way, way back a fire master brewed coffee for me and kept it heated all morning at a perfect temperature over hot embers that resulted from a fire he made out of woodsy elements he gathered around our campground which was on a desolate savannah in Kenya. Blew my mind. Fire, to me, was either a teardrop candlewick glow or raging wild through mountainsides. My lack of fire finessing shows up each summer when I present scorched meats that are either undercooked or dried out. “I don’t want the black part,” my son has pleaded on more than one occasion. The problem: I put the effort into the sauce and not the fire. Thanks to my new summer bible,The Grilling Book, that changed with a few duh? tips. Fire good.
