This weekend, Caitlin and I went apple picking in nearby Belleville, Illinois. Armed with our plastic bags, we each set off to collect the perfect apples. Careful not to overload on the apples, we each filled our respective bag to the half-way point. Yet, when we made it to the scale, we had collectively picked over sixteen pounds of Red and Golden Deliciousness.
Faced with the prospect of an overflowing fruit drawer, …
As with any recipe by Ina Garten, the question is not whether the dish will be great: it will be. Rather, the question usually is: “How much butter can I leave out, and still have a great dish?”
In this case, Ina called for twelve tablespoons of butter, which struck me as a bit much. I consulted my Cooking Light Dessert book, and found a nearly identical recipe, calling for six tablespoons. Being my judicious self, I simply…
Jewish holidays are nothing if not symbolic. And part of the symbolism naturally encompasses the food. On Purim, it’s hamantashen, triangular confections meant to evoke the villain of the day. On Passover, it’s matzah, unleavened bread meant to evoke the speed with which the ancient Jews fled Pharaoh’s Egypt. On Hanukkah, it’s latkes, fried potato pancakes meant to evoke the miracle of the burning oil.
Rosh Hashanah, which begins this Friday at sunset, is no different. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, and to ensure that the new year is a sweet and good one, it’s customary to eat apples and honey. But unfortunately, where there’s honey, there’s honey cakes – too often a dry, and …
Angelo Brocato’s Italian Ice Cream Parlor is an unassuming place, sandwiched between an Asian restaurant unsure about its own ethnicity, and a sports bar with saloon doors for an entrance. On one corner of the street sits a warehouse, with stacks of rolled carpet piled high in all directions; on the other corner rests Junque Antiques, the building itself looking several birthdays older than its wares.
Parking for Angelo Brocato’s is limited to an empty gravel-filled lot, or whatever spaces are available at 45-degree angles on the wide sidewalk on the river side of North Carrolton Avenue. The parlor itself occupies a one-story storefront in the mid-city neighborhood of New Orleans, a safe distance from the reverie of the French Quarter. Inside, the store displays the black-and-white portrait of its founder, and the wire-rimmed chairs, apothecary jars, and …
I have an impatient streak. It’s why I don’t play golf, and why I can’t read music. It’s why I prefer talking to texting, and why I bring work home. It might also be why I scheduled this post to publish while on vacation. So when things take longer than I think they should, I get frustrated. And when things don’t work out the first time, to say nothing of the second time, I get equally frustrated.
In the kitchen, however, I’m a little more forgiving. In the kitchen, I’m usually willing to forgive a first mishap, and to chalk it up as a culinary rough draft. Some of my recipes even look like the galleys of a novel, with the characteristic cross-outs and line-edits. Ingredients are substituted or subtracted like unwanted sentences, cooking times expand or contract like secondary characters, and quantities increase or decrease as if page numbers.
As writing is to cooking, I’m willing to work through a few rough drafts. And this recipe took more than a few. In all, …