Okay, here it is, as promised. A chicken dinner for any Sunday.
But this is not my grandmother’s chicken dinner. Not a whole chicken, unless you buy the chicken in cut it into serving pieces yourself. Something I do not suggest as it takes up unnecessary time. I usually go to my favorite meat guy, and have him do it for me. I am perfectly capable of cutting up a whole chicken myself, but have no time to waste, either cutting or cleaning it up. I have [...]]]>
I’m not a bad girl. Haven’t been since kids and the responsibilities that go along with them cured me. But this week, I did some bad things in my kitchen.
First, and worst: I planned to make tacos on Sunday. My grandmother, if she knew, would come right down from heaven and smack me upside the head. Sunday was a day for a family dinner. A civilized roasted whole (and only whole) [...]]]>
“You knead the dough, and when it feels right, it is You taste the sauce as you go, and when it tastes right, it is”
She did her cooking early, before the day warmed up, as she learned in a tiny Italian hilltown. Transported by [...]]]>
Good day to walk to the fish market and get the fixin’s for chowder. Think I’ll skip the clams today. Just don’t want to deal with shells. Watching the fog [...]]]>
Until recently I only thought of nutrition regarding my children, and I blindly followed the USDA Food Pyramid or other highly regarded guidelines. Yesterday I picked up a book called Wheat Belly by William David, M.D., and although I usual look at these one- [...]]]>
August, when the sun pours down its golden rays like so many puddles of butter. I can’t think of anything to express this better than corn. Freshly picked. From a backyard garden, if you’re lucky enough to have one. Bought from a farm stand or farmers’ market, and raced home so it doesn’t lose any of its sweet goodness. A pot of water set to boiling before husking, so it’s ready when each stalk is cleanly [...]]]>
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was talking about tomatoes. What else could be considered more a bowl of summertime? But too bad for Virgil as he lived long before the discovery of the Americas – and tomatoes which are native to this hemisphere. Poor guy never got to taste them. [...]]]>
Tourists enthusiastically criss-cross Dock Square, but dodging traffic on a weekend approximates Manhattan. Allison's, the little greasy spoon where my [...]]]>
Inspired traditional salmon for July Fourth menu. At fish store, where they will have sides of salmon, I will ask them to take out the pin bones. And they will try. But I’ll have the tweezers ready in case they miss any. [...]]]>
The shop’s charm is in its lack of charm. Creaky [...]]]>
The bistros that artists once inhabited still stand. Disney-fresh, [...]]]>
Popular for decades, this restaurant packs them in every night. More [...]]]>
What the heck do Parisians do with all that extra bread? Eat anywhere in Paris, a bistro, a brasserie, a fine restaurant, a cafe, or a private home, and a basket of thickly sliced baguette is as important to the table setting as cutlery. Not a skimpy 3 or 4 slices, but piled high. No butter. No olive oil. The bread is so good it stands alone. No bread plates, either. A few eateries run by the cool new chefs whose cutting edge menus use the classics as a jumping off [...]]]>
What I don’t like – aside from the fact that so many kids think that Ratatouille is a cartoon rodent – is zucchini. I hate zucchini. Except when seeded, cut into strips, treated to standard breading procedure – seasoned flour, egg wash, flavored bread crumbs – and pan- [...]]]>
In other parts of the country, every food gets a turn on the grill. Over the last few years I’ve experimented with sweet potatoes, pineapple, avocado and several other things. Just like the deep fried, not every day. This season, I understand the grill is gonna [...]]]>
Legend has it that those were the last words of rough and tumble cowboy Kit Carson. Some bucket list!
I’ve never made a bucket list. If asked what might be on mine, I can list only going to an opera. The Met. I grew up I hating opera – too stagey, too overblown, too much. I’d heard enough with an Italian grandpa in the house, urging the family to watch an opera on PBS or listen to a recording. [...]]]>
My kitchen, the room where I spend so many happy family hours. The place where I re-create my grandmother’s food and present it to my kids so that they know their heritage and carry it forward. Then, there are the dinners that have been inspired by [...]]]>
I rarely bake brownies from scratch; I use a mix then add a personal touch. Chocolate or peanut butter chips, walnuts, pecans, M&M's, or mini-marshmallows, shredded coconut, liqueurs (orange-flavored is my favorite) stirred into the batter.
This week, one of my food history students chose “chocolate cake” as her research project submitted a batch of brownies for her [...]]]>
I don’t know where that quote originated. I found it and copied it and kept it. I ran across it last week and thought about how true it is – at least in my life. I grew up on Italian food. With an Italian grandmother living nearby, if my mother ever dared feed her children something like a hamburger, I knew that a nice bowl of pasta or a thick square of pizza (never a [...]]]>
This post has nothing to do with cooking. It might embarrass me. It might make my son angry. It's about emotions of motherhood. The thoughts may not be written eloquently, but here it is.
I've loved few men with enduring love. In order of age: Dad, or Gramps as he was called toward the end of his life. An uncle, a World War II hero. My brother. My husband. My son.