The Good:
Everyone has their Happy Place and mine is Whole Foods. Everything in that place glistens. Blood-red cherries, plump heirloom tomatoes, fragrant parcels of basil and rosemary...I am seduced every time. And don't even get me started on the fish counter. Suffice it to say that sashimi grade tuna makes my heart pound almost as much as Daniel Craig.
Have you ever seen a grouchy Whole Foods employee? Me neither. They're always cheerful and patient and happy to chat about the pros/cons of the English Stilton vs the Maytag Blue. I do not know for certain, but I suspect the break room in Whole Foods is equipped with a valium salt lick. Whole Foods employees are blissed out.
Even the huge-ass bill and the ugly chaos that is the Boulder Whole Foods parking lot fail to sour me on the place. But really, there is no more frightening place than that parking lot. If there's any place I'm going to get my ass handed to me on a platter, it's that parking lot. Even with the extra spaces they added.
After wandering around dreamily for at least an hour, I checked out with a big old jar of tahini paste and some adorable aubergines and a big hunk of parm-reggiano and the Duel of the Eggplant Dips was on.
The Bad:
I washed the eggplants, pricked them several times with a fork and began making these two recipes from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything.
Bittman claims that roasting the eggplant makes all the difference, and he's a veggie-savvy guy, so I popped them into my 500 degree oven and waited. My not-very-clean 500 degree oven, I might add. Which is a big mistake.
Note to Self: do not cook anything in a rather dirty oven at 500 degrees unless you disable the smoke alarm.
After opening all the windows and disabling said smoke alarm, I had some nicely blistered eggplant. I took half the batch, chopped it finely, mixed it with lemon, garlic, olive oil and parm-reg and seasoning and...it was okay. The earth didn't move, but roasting did lend a nice smokiness and it was certainly edible. Didn't touch what we ate in Greece, though.
On to recipe 2. Popped remaining eggplant in the Cuisinart, threw in toasted pine nuts, lemon, garlic. Opened the can of tahini paste, which had completely separated, and began stirring...and stirring. Five minutes of stirring vigorously and finally I could add it to the mix and whir it all together. Add seasoning, plop it into a bowl and...
The Ugly:
Did you know that tahini paste is highly perishable and, if left on a shelf for months in a Whole Foods in the Rocky Mountains (where apparently nobody buys tahini paste so there's no turnover), becomes rancid?
Ask my garbage disposal, because that's where Recipe 2 ended up. At least I tried it before poisoning my guests.
I considered taking it over to my neighbor--the one who lets his schnauzer relieve himself in my front yard every morning--but I decided to be civil.
I'm done with eggplant. Good eggplant belongs to Greece, and I will be back.
ps: Asshole Neighbor with Perennially Pissing Schnauzer: I am not done with you.
Showing posts with label Greece. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Greece. Show all posts
Friday, June 5, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
7 Perfect Hours
So you've already heard me gripe about the first 2 days in Santorini and I promise not to aggravate you by whining about it again. Okay, I will whine about what happened to my hair. Hair+Humidity=Jacked.
Instead, I will tell you about the 7 perfect hours we had in Santorini until we caught the ferry to Crete.
I didn't really know what I'd been missing, but when we woke to sun and clear skies, I skipped over to the front door, flung the door open and whoa.
Okay, so that's what all the fuss is about. I get it now.
We stayed at a charming boutique hotel in the town of Imerovigli called the Astra Apartments and Suites.
Imerovigli is about a 25 minute walk from the main town of Fira, and we loved staying a little bit away from the crowded main area. Well, we loved it on the day it wasn't rainy and cold...I do recall cursing our choice to stay in Imerovigli a time or two when drenched, chattering and cantankerous.
But truly, I recommend it. Imerovigli is actually on the most scenic part of the caldera, so the views cannot get any better.
You won't really have to deal with the hordes of blue-haired ladies who ransack Fira every afternoon when the cruise ships dock, either. BIG bonus. You don't have to deal with donkey scat either, unless you decide to walk to Fira, which is your choice. And if you're not up for a walk to Fira, the town of Firostefani is only a 10 minute walk away and they have some great restaurants.
Plus, the nice folks at the Astra include breakfast every day in the room rate. And it's a serious breakfast. You get to pick your type of omelet and it arrives hot. There's delicious, thick, Greek yogurt and fruit and granola. Meat and cheese platters, tomatoes and cucumbers. Yeah. And you get to eat it on your little front patio facing the caldera and just gawk at the amazing beauty in front of you.
We checked out of the hotel, left our bags in the lobby and set out for Fira. We had some trinkets and souveniers to purchase, and some little Gremlins were waiting anxiously in Houston to see what spoils would arrive. There are so many charming little shops in Fira and we spent a delightful hour or so there...until the attack of the Blue-Haired Cruisers. Dear God, they came in droves, pushing and shoving and sweating.
"We have to get the Hell out of here," I told hubby. So we hopped the bus to Oia, which is on the other side of the island. Oia is the other "big" city on Santorini and is the fishing hub. And directly underneath Oia is the Bay of Ammoudi, where the kind people at Astra Apartments insisted we stop for a fresh fish lunch.
To get to the Bay, and the tiny smattering of tavernas that sit right next to the shore, you need to take a path from Oia, which is 250 steps down. No, I didn't count them, I am not 'that' anal. They actually have numbers on them. Or you could do what smart folks do and rent a moped or take a cab.
I take it that you've already gathered that we aren't smart. In fact, we are so not smart that we couldn't even find the staircase to the Bay. We took the asphalt road instead and were unsure if we were even on the right road because, of course, there was no signage to be found anywhere. Mopeds whizzed past us and I wondered how long this road was, exactly.
Kinda long. As always, hubby and I took the long way. But we did eventually make it there and had built up an appetite. We walked to the end of the dock and entered the recommended taverna called Dimitri's "Ammoundi" Taverna. As we were waiting for a table, several fishermen reeled their boats in and slapped their haul onto the stones--hey, I thought, it's lunch!
We got a bottle of that famous Santorini wine and I asked our waitress what fish she recommended. "Come on back in the kitchen and take a look," she said.
How cool is that? I walked with her into the kitchen and there sat some really fresh, fat fish on ice in the cooler. It was hard to choose because they all were so gorgeous. You may think it's odd to call a heap of dead fish gorgeous, but believe me, they were.
I begged our waitress to help me choose. Turns out, the "waitress" is the wife of Dimitri, the owner. Her name is Joy and she is blonde and lovely and knows a buttload about fish. She steered me towards the mussels and the snapper, and I didn't argue because the snapper was a big, pink, delicious looking dude.
"The snapper's the most expensive, though," Joy said.
"Are you kidding? Who cares! I am in Greece, on the waterfront, in a tiny taverna kitchen looking at a gorgeous fish that just came off the boat a few hours ago. And I have a credit card. Bring it on, baby!"
"Okay, I'll throw it on the grill for you," she said. And then she paused and eyeballed me. "Where are you from?"
I told her, and she smiled and winked at me and said, "Do you want me to take the head off before I bring it to the table?"
Joy is a saint. Because even though I love food--the freshest possible food--I don't really want to look it in the eye. I know, I know, it's wimpy and no foodie worth her salt should balk at a fish head, but I was really freaking relieved. Joy laughed. She's Canadian. She said she'd even bone the sucker for us. I want to adopt Joy.
The mussels came out first. My husband and I have a thing about mussels. We had our second date over mussels at a cute French bistro. We ate mussels in many restuaurants during our courtship. We fell in love, probably, while sharing a pot of mussels with a loaf of good bread. Mussels, hubby, and I...we have a history. And when we were married without children, I used to drive to the Whole Foods and make mussels for him at least 3 times a month. We'd open a bottle of wine and slurp down those tender guys and sop sauce with bread and pile the shells onto the table and make eyes at one another...
Babies killed that little love ritual, lemme tell ya. I don't think I've made mussels for my husband in YEARS. I just can't toodle off to the Whole Foods that's a town away anymore, at least not easily. So we were really delighted to see those mussels, especially while looking at the Santorini coast on a sunny afternoon with a bottle of wine.
These mussels were prepared simply--steamed in wine, garlic, olive oil and shallot with a good fistful of fresh parsley scattered over the top. We attacked them. Seriously, those guys didn't stand a chance with us. We were so hungry and they were so good that we hoovered them down in no time. If I had any shame, I'd have been embarrassed, but I was too happy. So good.
Joy came back to check on us and I chatted her up--a practice I have that my husband finds excruciatingly embarrassing. Salesclerks, grocery baggers, the gardener, some random lady in an elevator--I chat them up. Which is odd because growing up, my mother did the exact same thing and I wanted to die, I was so mortified. I hated it. I bit the inside of my cheek whenever she did it because it was that annoying. And look at me, thirty years later, doing the exact same thing.
Anyways, Joy visited Greece 22 years ago, laid eyes on Dimitri, fell in love, and never went back. Doesn't that just make you swoon, it's so romantic?
Then the snapper, the star of the show came out. He'd been slit open like a book, brushed with olive oil, grilled and served with an olive oil/lemon viniagrette. Joy plopped him down on our table and said,"I'm confiscating your silverware. Fish like this should be eaten with the hands."
She didn't steer us wrong. We could not stop eating it, truly. I honestly think it's my favorite thing that I've ever eaten and hubby agrees. We picked little tender morsels off, popped them into our mouths, sipped wine, tilted our faces up to the sun. I was so happy that I even shared a little fish with the taverna's resident cat, Rosie...even though she's a little fat and Joy told me not to.
Shhhh, our secret. Days like today are too good to keep for yourself.
Instead, I will tell you about the 7 perfect hours we had in Santorini until we caught the ferry to Crete.
I didn't really know what I'd been missing, but when we woke to sun and clear skies, I skipped over to the front door, flung the door open and whoa.
Okay, so that's what all the fuss is about. I get it now.
We stayed at a charming boutique hotel in the town of Imerovigli called the Astra Apartments and Suites.
Imerovigli is about a 25 minute walk from the main town of Fira, and we loved staying a little bit away from the crowded main area. Well, we loved it on the day it wasn't rainy and cold...I do recall cursing our choice to stay in Imerovigli a time or two when drenched, chattering and cantankerous.But truly, I recommend it. Imerovigli is actually on the most scenic part of the caldera, so the views cannot get any better.
You won't really have to deal with the hordes of blue-haired ladies who ransack Fira every afternoon when the cruise ships dock, either. BIG bonus. You don't have to deal with donkey scat either, unless you decide to walk to Fira, which is your choice. And if you're not up for a walk to Fira, the town of Firostefani is only a 10 minute walk away and they have some great restaurants.
Plus, the nice folks at the Astra include breakfast every day in the room rate. And it's a serious breakfast. You get to pick your type of omelet and it arrives hot. There's delicious, thick, Greek yogurt and fruit and granola. Meat and cheese platters, tomatoes and cucumbers. Yeah. And you get to eat it on your little front patio facing the caldera and just gawk at the amazing beauty in front of you.
We checked out of the hotel, left our bags in the lobby and set out for Fira. We had some trinkets and souveniers to purchase, and some little Gremlins were waiting anxiously in Houston to see what spoils would arrive. There are so many charming little shops in Fira and we spent a delightful hour or so there...until the attack of the Blue-Haired Cruisers. Dear God, they came in droves, pushing and shoving and sweating.
"We have to get the Hell out of here," I told hubby. So we hopped the bus to Oia, which is on the other side of the island. Oia is the other "big" city on Santorini and is the fishing hub. And directly underneath Oia is the Bay of Ammoudi, where the kind people at Astra Apartments insisted we stop for a fresh fish lunch.
To get to the Bay, and the tiny smattering of tavernas that sit right next to the shore, you need to take a path from Oia, which is 250 steps down. No, I didn't count them, I am not 'that' anal. They actually have numbers on them. Or you could do what smart folks do and rent a moped or take a cab.
I take it that you've already gathered that we aren't smart. In fact, we are so not smart that we couldn't even find the staircase to the Bay. We took the asphalt road instead and were unsure if we were even on the right road because, of course, there was no signage to be found anywhere. Mopeds whizzed past us and I wondered how long this road was, exactly.
Kinda long. As always, hubby and I took the long way. But we did eventually make it there and had built up an appetite. We walked to the end of the dock and entered the recommended taverna called Dimitri's "Ammoundi" Taverna. As we were waiting for a table, several fishermen reeled their boats in and slapped their haul onto the stones--hey, I thought, it's lunch!
We got a bottle of that famous Santorini wine and I asked our waitress what fish she recommended. "Come on back in the kitchen and take a look," she said.
How cool is that? I walked with her into the kitchen and there sat some really fresh, fat fish on ice in the cooler. It was hard to choose because they all were so gorgeous. You may think it's odd to call a heap of dead fish gorgeous, but believe me, they were.
I begged our waitress to help me choose. Turns out, the "waitress" is the wife of Dimitri, the owner. Her name is Joy and she is blonde and lovely and knows a buttload about fish. She steered me towards the mussels and the snapper, and I didn't argue because the snapper was a big, pink, delicious looking dude.
"The snapper's the most expensive, though," Joy said.
"Are you kidding? Who cares! I am in Greece, on the waterfront, in a tiny taverna kitchen looking at a gorgeous fish that just came off the boat a few hours ago. And I have a credit card. Bring it on, baby!"
"Okay, I'll throw it on the grill for you," she said. And then she paused and eyeballed me. "Where are you from?"
I told her, and she smiled and winked at me and said, "Do you want me to take the head off before I bring it to the table?"
Joy is a saint. Because even though I love food--the freshest possible food--I don't really want to look it in the eye. I know, I know, it's wimpy and no foodie worth her salt should balk at a fish head, but I was really freaking relieved. Joy laughed. She's Canadian. She said she'd even bone the sucker for us. I want to adopt Joy.
The mussels came out first. My husband and I have a thing about mussels. We had our second date over mussels at a cute French bistro. We ate mussels in many restuaurants during our courtship. We fell in love, probably, while sharing a pot of mussels with a loaf of good bread. Mussels, hubby, and I...we have a history. And when we were married without children, I used to drive to the Whole Foods and make mussels for him at least 3 times a month. We'd open a bottle of wine and slurp down those tender guys and sop sauce with bread and pile the shells onto the table and make eyes at one another...
Babies killed that little love ritual, lemme tell ya. I don't think I've made mussels for my husband in YEARS. I just can't toodle off to the Whole Foods that's a town away anymore, at least not easily. So we were really delighted to see those mussels, especially while looking at the Santorini coast on a sunny afternoon with a bottle of wine.
These mussels were prepared simply--steamed in wine, garlic, olive oil and shallot with a good fistful of fresh parsley scattered over the top. We attacked them. Seriously, those guys didn't stand a chance with us. We were so hungry and they were so good that we hoovered them down in no time. If I had any shame, I'd have been embarrassed, but I was too happy. So good.
Joy came back to check on us and I chatted her up--a practice I have that my husband finds excruciatingly embarrassing. Salesclerks, grocery baggers, the gardener, some random lady in an elevator--I chat them up. Which is odd because growing up, my mother did the exact same thing and I wanted to die, I was so mortified. I hated it. I bit the inside of my cheek whenever she did it because it was that annoying. And look at me, thirty years later, doing the exact same thing.
Anyways, Joy visited Greece 22 years ago, laid eyes on Dimitri, fell in love, and never went back. Doesn't that just make you swoon, it's so romantic?
Then the snapper, the star of the show came out. He'd been slit open like a book, brushed with olive oil, grilled and served with an olive oil/lemon viniagrette. Joy plopped him down on our table and said,"I'm confiscating your silverware. Fish like this should be eaten with the hands."
She didn't steer us wrong. We could not stop eating it, truly. I honestly think it's my favorite thing that I've ever eaten and hubby agrees. We picked little tender morsels off, popped them into our mouths, sipped wine, tilted our faces up to the sun. I was so happy that I even shared a little fish with the taverna's resident cat, Rosie...even though she's a little fat and Joy told me not to.
Shhhh, our secret. Days like today are too good to keep for yourself.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Two meals in Athens
Just to let you know, we DID find the restaurant that I so stubbornly wanted to eat at in Athens. And yes, much to my dismay, we DID pass it twice the first day. Ouch.
We found To Kouti, a cute little place with a great patio view of the Acropolis, without any drama this time. To Kouti means "the box" in Greek, and it is a tiny box-like restaurant. I was taken with the view and the menu--each menu is inscribed inside a different children's book. Some of the books are Greek, some are English, some are German, some are French. It's lots of fun trying to decode a children's book in a language you don't know. It's a good way to pass the time.
ps: my rudimentary German says that this book is about how everything is good on your birthday, Rosi!! And you gotta love that overbite.
Another good way to pass the time is to drink wine on the patio and watch hordes of people walk by because it's Sunday, which means it's market day. On Sundays there's a huge open-air flea market smack in the middle of the Monastiraki district, and we saw all kinds of swindlers and tourists and peddlers and gypsy-looking people.
There were little kids no older than Miss D. darting about, selling little packets of Kleenex or boxes of matches. There were some very persistent and annoying street musicians just dying to give you a serenade. There were clusters of African men hawking VERY fake looking Louis Vuitton bags. My favorite was a little old man, very stoop-shouldered, pushing a huge music box down the street on 4 wheels. He turned an old fashioned looking crank on the side and it played tinkly little notes. I am still wicked pissed that we failed to get a photo of him.
We needed the diversion, because the service at To Kouti is quite, um, leisurely. But it was a gorgeous day and we gazed at the Acropolis and smiled at the children and drank wine. Not a bad way to spend 2 or 3 hours. Plus, the food, when we eventually got it, was very good.
They bring bread to the table in little boxes (of course!) and it comes with a yummy, subtly spiced fava bean dip. Because the tomatoes in Greece are sooooo good, I got both tabbouleh and Greek salad and both tasted fresh and herbaceous and delectable.
We also got meatballs, which (sorry hubby) came over a bed of more Greek salad. The meatballs were flavorful and so tender that they melted in your mouth. And they weren't deep fried, like a lot of the meatballs in Greece are, so I felt rather virtuous.
We spent the afternoon wandering around the market and exploring the ruins of the Ancient Agora and we got lost a lot, but that was okay. We definitely walked off lunch.
Greeks eat dinner late, as do many people in warm climates. Restaurants don't really even start to get hopping until 9pm and many are open until 2am. We strolled into Daphne's Restaurant around 9:45pm and it wasn't that full; it was buzzing when we left.
Daphne's has gotten lots of good press in the guidebooks and in the hotels, so I wanted to eat there. Plus, it's got one of the best names in the world--how could I resist?
We had a delicious starter of eggplant salad ("good" eggplant, naturally) spread on warm bread, and shrimp "Saganaki" (shrimp in a sauce of tomato, ouzo and feta cheese).
For an entree, my husband ordered...rabbit. To be fair, Daphne's is well known for their rabbit, but still. He wanted to eat Thumper? Weird!
Now don't ask me why I don't think it's weird to eat cow or fish or chicken. I know I should be an equal-opportunity carnivore, but I'm not. I think it's weird to eat rabbit. Especially rabbit still on the bone, which gives me the willies just thinking about it.
I had to poke fun at my husband while we waited for our food, so I reminded him of that old episode of Bugs Bunny where the king keeps yelling at the cook, "Where's my hassenpfeffer?" And the king never gets it, of course, because Bugs Bunny is far too smart to end up as someone's dinner.
The rabbit came in a wine sauce that they called "Mavrodaphne" sauce and it's a delicately spiced dish that, my husband assured me, was very good. I had a lovely piece of fish.
Of course we got lost on our way home and had a nice hour walk trying to find out hotel. Cardio, man! It was a peaceful evening for me (eg: slept like the dead) but when I woke up, my sweet hubby was kind of sweaty and glassy eyed.
"I had three crazy-ass dreams in a row," he said.
I live for this stuff. I made him tell me about them all. They were all VERY odd, but the weirdest one involved Sebastian Bach , the lead singer from a very hair-band group called Skid Row (and my husband hates hair bands). Sebastian was following my husband around the world in the dream, crying about his lack of job opportunities.
"Where the heck did that dream come from?" I said.
"Hell if I know," he said, but his eyes were still bugging around in his head.
"Maybe you just weren't meant to eat Hassenpfeffer," I said.
"Revenge of the Hassenpfeffer...sounds like a bad movie," he replied. "I'm not eating it ever again. I don't need any hair band dudes in my dreams again. Even IF they need my help getting employed."
We found To Kouti, a cute little place with a great patio view of the Acropolis, without any drama this time. To Kouti means "the box" in Greek, and it is a tiny box-like restaurant. I was taken with the view and the menu--each menu is inscribed inside a different children's book. Some of the books are Greek, some are English, some are German, some are French. It's lots of fun trying to decode a children's book in a language you don't know. It's a good way to pass the time.
ps: my rudimentary German says that this book is about how everything is good on your birthday, Rosi!! And you gotta love that overbite.Another good way to pass the time is to drink wine on the patio and watch hordes of people walk by because it's Sunday, which means it's market day. On Sundays there's a huge open-air flea market smack in the middle of the Monastiraki district, and we saw all kinds of swindlers and tourists and peddlers and gypsy-looking people.
There were little kids no older than Miss D. darting about, selling little packets of Kleenex or boxes of matches. There were some very persistent and annoying street musicians just dying to give you a serenade. There were clusters of African men hawking VERY fake looking Louis Vuitton bags. My favorite was a little old man, very stoop-shouldered, pushing a huge music box down the street on 4 wheels. He turned an old fashioned looking crank on the side and it played tinkly little notes. I am still wicked pissed that we failed to get a photo of him.
We needed the diversion, because the service at To Kouti is quite, um, leisurely. But it was a gorgeous day and we gazed at the Acropolis and smiled at the children and drank wine. Not a bad way to spend 2 or 3 hours. Plus, the food, when we eventually got it, was very good.
They bring bread to the table in little boxes (of course!) and it comes with a yummy, subtly spiced fava bean dip. Because the tomatoes in Greece are sooooo good, I got both tabbouleh and Greek salad and both tasted fresh and herbaceous and delectable.
We also got meatballs, which (sorry hubby) came over a bed of more Greek salad. The meatballs were flavorful and so tender that they melted in your mouth. And they weren't deep fried, like a lot of the meatballs in Greece are, so I felt rather virtuous.
We spent the afternoon wandering around the market and exploring the ruins of the Ancient Agora and we got lost a lot, but that was okay. We definitely walked off lunch.
Greeks eat dinner late, as do many people in warm climates. Restaurants don't really even start to get hopping until 9pm and many are open until 2am. We strolled into Daphne's Restaurant around 9:45pm and it wasn't that full; it was buzzing when we left.
Daphne's has gotten lots of good press in the guidebooks and in the hotels, so I wanted to eat there. Plus, it's got one of the best names in the world--how could I resist?
We had a delicious starter of eggplant salad ("good" eggplant, naturally) spread on warm bread, and shrimp "Saganaki" (shrimp in a sauce of tomato, ouzo and feta cheese).
For an entree, my husband ordered...rabbit. To be fair, Daphne's is well known for their rabbit, but still. He wanted to eat Thumper? Weird!
Now don't ask me why I don't think it's weird to eat cow or fish or chicken. I know I should be an equal-opportunity carnivore, but I'm not. I think it's weird to eat rabbit. Especially rabbit still on the bone, which gives me the willies just thinking about it.
I had to poke fun at my husband while we waited for our food, so I reminded him of that old episode of Bugs Bunny where the king keeps yelling at the cook, "Where's my hassenpfeffer?" And the king never gets it, of course, because Bugs Bunny is far too smart to end up as someone's dinner.
The rabbit came in a wine sauce that they called "Mavrodaphne" sauce and it's a delicately spiced dish that, my husband assured me, was very good. I had a lovely piece of fish.
Of course we got lost on our way home and had a nice hour walk trying to find out hotel. Cardio, man! It was a peaceful evening for me (eg: slept like the dead) but when I woke up, my sweet hubby was kind of sweaty and glassy eyed.
"I had three crazy-ass dreams in a row," he said.
I live for this stuff. I made him tell me about them all. They were all VERY odd, but the weirdest one involved Sebastian Bach , the lead singer from a very hair-band group called Skid Row (and my husband hates hair bands). Sebastian was following my husband around the world in the dream, crying about his lack of job opportunities.
"Where the heck did that dream come from?" I said.
"Hell if I know," he said, but his eyes were still bugging around in his head.
"Maybe you just weren't meant to eat Hassenpfeffer," I said.
"Revenge of the Hassenpfeffer...sounds like a bad movie," he replied. "I'm not eating it ever again. I don't need any hair band dudes in my dreams again. Even IF they need my help getting employed."
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I Will Never, Not Ever, Eat Eggplant
Guess what my husband has eaten every day since we've been in Greece? Eggplant salad. Dude don't do eggplant. Eggplant is one of his forbidden foods. Most Indian people love eggplant but he thinks it's gross and spongy and weird. I have been watching him eat it for 5 days and haven't said anything, but today I just felt particularly obnoxious and had to point out that he'd been scarfing the stuff for days.
"But this is 'good' eggplant," he said.
Huh.
This was a head scratcher. Not just because the Greek eggplant salad he'd been eating had, well, eggplant in it. It also was creamy. Dude don't do creamy. In fact, I could go far enough to say that my husband has a deep fear of all things creamy (except ice cream--the man is human, after all).
"What makes this 'good' eggplant?" I asked.
He sort of looked annoyed. He just wanted to eat the eggplant, not analyze it, but I couldn't let it go.
"I don't know what makes it 'good' eggplant but it is."
As if that was going to pacify me.
"But it's creamy," I said.
He gave me the universal look for duh, Moron! and kept eating the eggplant, slathered on a piece of grilled bread.
I helpfully ticked off a list of creamy foods that he professes to hate and will not eat: sour cream, yogurt, ranch or blue cheese dressing, mayo, tzatziki, just about any kind of dip, white trash food.
He just shrugged.
This was making me nuts.
"Is it the grilled bread?" I asked. "Could it be that you just really love grilled bread and you could smear anything on it and you'd think it was delicious?"
"I'm pretty sure I'm smarter than that, even if you don't think so."
"Is it the spices? Could it be that you just really love lemon and garlic, and you could put lemon and garlic on anything and you'd think it was delicious?"
"Do you really have to be the Inspector Clouseau of Eggplant right now? It's fairly annoying."
"I know, but dude, you are eating creamy eggplant!"
"I think you've had enough wine."
"Hey, hey, I think I know what it is! It's the olive oil, right? It's gotta be the olive oil! Greeks are famous for amazing olive oil, so that's it! Hah. I knew it had to be something."
"You know, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think it's the olive oil. I've been eating olive oil in the Greek Salad all week and now I can't even look at another Greek Salad. So if the oil was the secret weapon of the universe, I'd still be eating Greek Salad. So there."
Aaaaaarrrrggghhhh!
"Sweetie, calm yourself. I think I do actually know what's amazing about this eggplant."
"Well then just tell me already, douchebag! It's been killing me!"
"I'm eating this eggplant in Greece. There. That's it."
Now of course, he was right. And I could just end this post with that thought, because it's a lovely thought and it came from the heart and he was very sweet and witty.
But of course I can't. I can't leave anything alone; it's a sickness, I tell you.
Now that I am home (okay, only for 5 days but still) I must.replicate.that.eggplant.
I'm thinking that it was eerily close to Baba Ghanoush, which I have no idea how to make. So I looked it up in one of my favorite cookbooks, How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman. Mark Bittman knows his veggies. I trust him.
He has two recipes: one for Roasted Eggplant Dip and one for Baba Ghanoush. The big difference between the two is that Baba Ghanoush has toasted pine nuts and tahini in it, which I think might be right.
Oh, and Bittman tells you to roast the eggplant. He says, "Roasting eggplant gives it such wonderful smoky flavor that even people who claim not to like eggplant often eat this dip enthusiastically."
So I'm going to try them. Both of them, back to back, in an Eggplant Smackdown.
But not now. Because the purchasing of tahini needs to happen at Whole Foods, which is 20 minutes away and I'm too lazy this week (well, 5 days) to make the trip. But I will keep you posted.
And if the miracle ingredient really is Greece, well I guess we'll just have to go back.
Here's the recipe(s) if you are interested.
Roasted Eggplant Dip
from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything
makes at least 6 servings with bread or crackers
2 medium or 4 small eggplant, about 1 pound
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 teaspoon minced garlic, or to taste
1/2 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
minced fresh parsley leaves for garnish
1. Start a charcoal or wood fire, or preheat a gas grill, or turn the oven to 500 degrees F. Pierce the eggplant in several places with a thin-bladed knife or skewer. Grill or roast, turning occasionally, until the eggplant collapses and the skin blackens, 15 to 30 minutes depending on size. Remove and cool.
2. When the eggplant is cool enough to handle, part the skin (if it hasn't split on its own), scoop out the flesh, and mince it finely. Mix it with the lemon juice, oil, garlic, cheese, salt and pepper. Taste to adjust seasonings, then garnish and serve, with bread or crackers.
Baba Ghanoush
from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything
Omit the oil and the cheese from above recipe. While the eggplant is grilling or roasting, toast 1/2 cup of pine nuts by heating them in a dry skillet over medium heat, shaking occasionally, just until they begin to brown. When the eggplant is cool, put it into the container of a food processor with the pine nuts, lemon juice, garlic, and 1/3 cup tahini (sesame paste). Process until very smooth, adding a few teaspoons of water or olive oil if necessary. Taste and add salt and/or more lemon juice or garlic if necessary. Garnish with minced parsley and serve.
"But this is 'good' eggplant," he said.
Huh.
This was a head scratcher. Not just because the Greek eggplant salad he'd been eating had, well, eggplant in it. It also was creamy. Dude don't do creamy. In fact, I could go far enough to say that my husband has a deep fear of all things creamy (except ice cream--the man is human, after all).
"What makes this 'good' eggplant?" I asked.
He sort of looked annoyed. He just wanted to eat the eggplant, not analyze it, but I couldn't let it go.
"I don't know what makes it 'good' eggplant but it is."
As if that was going to pacify me.
"But it's creamy," I said.
He gave me the universal look for duh, Moron! and kept eating the eggplant, slathered on a piece of grilled bread.
I helpfully ticked off a list of creamy foods that he professes to hate and will not eat: sour cream, yogurt, ranch or blue cheese dressing, mayo, tzatziki, just about any kind of dip, white trash food.
He just shrugged.
This was making me nuts.
"Is it the grilled bread?" I asked. "Could it be that you just really love grilled bread and you could smear anything on it and you'd think it was delicious?"
"I'm pretty sure I'm smarter than that, even if you don't think so."
"Is it the spices? Could it be that you just really love lemon and garlic, and you could put lemon and garlic on anything and you'd think it was delicious?"
"Do you really have to be the Inspector Clouseau of Eggplant right now? It's fairly annoying."
"I know, but dude, you are eating creamy eggplant!"
"I think you've had enough wine."
"Hey, hey, I think I know what it is! It's the olive oil, right? It's gotta be the olive oil! Greeks are famous for amazing olive oil, so that's it! Hah. I knew it had to be something."
"You know, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think it's the olive oil. I've been eating olive oil in the Greek Salad all week and now I can't even look at another Greek Salad. So if the oil was the secret weapon of the universe, I'd still be eating Greek Salad. So there."
Aaaaaarrrrggghhhh!
"Sweetie, calm yourself. I think I do actually know what's amazing about this eggplant."
"Well then just tell me already, douchebag! It's been killing me!"
"I'm eating this eggplant in Greece. There. That's it."
Now of course, he was right. And I could just end this post with that thought, because it's a lovely thought and it came from the heart and he was very sweet and witty.
But of course I can't. I can't leave anything alone; it's a sickness, I tell you.
Now that I am home (okay, only for 5 days but still) I must.replicate.that.eggplant.
I'm thinking that it was eerily close to Baba Ghanoush, which I have no idea how to make. So I looked it up in one of my favorite cookbooks, How to Cook Everything by Mark Bittman. Mark Bittman knows his veggies. I trust him.
He has two recipes: one for Roasted Eggplant Dip and one for Baba Ghanoush. The big difference between the two is that Baba Ghanoush has toasted pine nuts and tahini in it, which I think might be right.
Oh, and Bittman tells you to roast the eggplant. He says, "Roasting eggplant gives it such wonderful smoky flavor that even people who claim not to like eggplant often eat this dip enthusiastically."
So I'm going to try them. Both of them, back to back, in an Eggplant Smackdown.
But not now. Because the purchasing of tahini needs to happen at Whole Foods, which is 20 minutes away and I'm too lazy this week (well, 5 days) to make the trip. But I will keep you posted.
And if the miracle ingredient really is Greece, well I guess we'll just have to go back.
Here's the recipe(s) if you are interested.
Roasted Eggplant Dip
from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything
makes at least 6 servings with bread or crackers
2 medium or 4 small eggplant, about 1 pound
1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil
1/2 teaspoon minced garlic, or to taste
1/2 cup freshly grated parmesan cheese
salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
minced fresh parsley leaves for garnish
1. Start a charcoal or wood fire, or preheat a gas grill, or turn the oven to 500 degrees F. Pierce the eggplant in several places with a thin-bladed knife or skewer. Grill or roast, turning occasionally, until the eggplant collapses and the skin blackens, 15 to 30 minutes depending on size. Remove and cool.
2. When the eggplant is cool enough to handle, part the skin (if it hasn't split on its own), scoop out the flesh, and mince it finely. Mix it with the lemon juice, oil, garlic, cheese, salt and pepper. Taste to adjust seasonings, then garnish and serve, with bread or crackers.
Baba Ghanoush
from Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything
Omit the oil and the cheese from above recipe. While the eggplant is grilling or roasting, toast 1/2 cup of pine nuts by heating them in a dry skillet over medium heat, shaking occasionally, just until they begin to brown. When the eggplant is cool, put it into the container of a food processor with the pine nuts, lemon juice, garlic, and 1/3 cup tahini (sesame paste). Process until very smooth, adding a few teaspoons of water or olive oil if necessary. Taste and add salt and/or more lemon juice or garlic if necessary. Garnish with minced parsley and serve.
Monday, May 11, 2009
One Night in Athens
So after a black and tan (okay, a couple) we lurched back to the Grande Bretagnge for a much needed little nap. I konked out for 2 1/2 hours and when I woke, I told hubby "Good Morning! It looks like it's going to be another beautiful day in Athens."
He said, "You haven't even had dinner yet, dummy." Oh.
We were (okay, I was) still kind of out of it, but luckily we had--according to the Best of 2009 issue of...some random magazine I read a few months ago--the best night time view of the acropolis in our very own hotel. On the roof even!
So we cleaned the stink off us and headed up to the GB Roof Garden. We watched the sun set, drank kir royales (15 euros a pop, cough) and were lucky enough to see this
I was so in love with the view that I couldn't be bothered to eat dinner elsewhere.
"If we eat here, it's gonna be a huge-ass bill," SOMEONE reminded me.
AHEM, excuse me, someone has had no sleep and hardly any food in the past 24 hours and has been walking for HOURS and who are you you cruel bastard who wants me to walk some more, when I feel like shit? Even though everything is my freaking fault, which is totally not the point.
I won. Dude knows not to mess with a feral beast.
Dinner was delicious: local fish and amazing bread and tomatoes like you never knew. And a really nice bottle of wine, which we hastily polished off.
Suddenly, I FELT TERRIFIC!
And guess what? All the waiters in Greece are cuties! And so helpful! Amazingly, they all have cousins who own tavernas that we need to visit tomorrow! And one of them has a cousin who plays in band who we must go see...now!
Yeah, I don't know why he married me, either.
But he paid our huge-ass bill and took me to see Rembetika and we got in for free with the royal treatment because our waiter at the GB, Evangelos, did indeed have a cousin playing and had called ahead to alert them.
Rembetika, as Evangelos (and my husband, who annoyingly knows everything about music) explained, is the music that the "real" people listen to--you know, the ones who don't like pop. Rembetika, they explained, is the music of the urban poor, the disenfranchised. They sing about drinking and drugs and anger and past injustices.
Yeah! My kinda attitude! My kinda music! I almost shook my fist in the air on the cab ride to the club. I pictured some Greek Kurt Cobain kinda dude, wailing into a microphone.
What I got was a tavern full of older people/families and a band that included an accordion, a violin and a tambourine. But they kinda rocked it, they did. The audience knew the songs by heart and sang and danced in the aisles and the singers belted the melodies out with feeling. And after a glass or two of the house wine--the wine of the Immortal, they said--I was tapping my foot right along with them.
The bar, should you ever find yourself in Athens in need of some Rembetika, tasty snacks and happy people, is called Stoa Athanaton. Music doesn't START until midnight, so I suggest you hustle up to the rooftop of the GB for 15$ kir royales and the most gorgeous Acropolis sunset you will ever see. But that wine of the Immortal? Ouch. Maybe not.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
We Interrupt this Blog for...
A life. I know, you thought I didn't have one, did you? And most days, weeks, months of the year, I would completely agree with you.
But this May? My life is completely jacked up.
The Good:
Hubby and I leave for Houston tomorrow night, where we'll drop the kiddos off with some very energetic, very nice grandparents. And then we head to New York and then Athens. I am praying that we do not contract the swine flu on our brief layover in New York. That would be a total Buzzkill, wouldn't you say?
The Bad:
After our Greece trip, hubby and I split up in New York. He flies home to work for the next week. I fly to Houston to help with the preparations for my sister-in-law's wedding. The helping I don't mind. The wedding I don't mind because SIL is really happy. The bad is the timing of the thing and the fact that it's an Indian wedding (well, half of it is) and, if you don't know this about Indian weddings, those things last for DAYS. And Indian weddings are also HUGE. And I don't know any other people at this wedding other than my sister-in-law and my in-laws. And unfortunately for me, I hate people.
I do. It's a most unattractive trait and it's humiliating to admit but people and I? We just don't do well together. And I have to wear a sari, which is fine except that I feel ridiculous in one. We pale blonde folk look stupid in saris. Indians look great, but not us. And I'll be wearing a bindi on my forehead. And no, I will not be posting any pictures of how ridiculous I look.
The Ugly:
After the wedding, we are home for 4.5 days and then the entire family is off...to DisneyWorld. Amusement.Parks.Suck.Ass. Enough said.
And My Point, And I Do Have One, is:
I started this damn blog and now I'm going to have to abandon it, in essence, for several weeks. And I've gotten kind of attached to my new bloggy friends and my favorite bloggy sites and I'll miss you. I will try to check in and update but it's going to be pretty lame and pretty thin for a bit. Please, please hang in there with me. I'll be back.
Hopefully with some kick-ass stories about Athens/Santorini/Crete and The Big Fat Indian Wedding and......Hades.
And if your May is half as crazy as mine and you feel like you never can catch a break--or your breath--click on one of these links and escape to Greece with me. I'd love some company.
Athens
Santorini
Crete
But this May? My life is completely jacked up.
The Good:
Hubby and I leave for Houston tomorrow night, where we'll drop the kiddos off with some very energetic, very nice grandparents. And then we head to New York and then Athens. I am praying that we do not contract the swine flu on our brief layover in New York. That would be a total Buzzkill, wouldn't you say?
The Bad:
After our Greece trip, hubby and I split up in New York. He flies home to work for the next week. I fly to Houston to help with the preparations for my sister-in-law's wedding. The helping I don't mind. The wedding I don't mind because SIL is really happy. The bad is the timing of the thing and the fact that it's an Indian wedding (well, half of it is) and, if you don't know this about Indian weddings, those things last for DAYS. And Indian weddings are also HUGE. And I don't know any other people at this wedding other than my sister-in-law and my in-laws. And unfortunately for me, I hate people.
I do. It's a most unattractive trait and it's humiliating to admit but people and I? We just don't do well together. And I have to wear a sari, which is fine except that I feel ridiculous in one. We pale blonde folk look stupid in saris. Indians look great, but not us. And I'll be wearing a bindi on my forehead. And no, I will not be posting any pictures of how ridiculous I look.
The Ugly:
After the wedding, we are home for 4.5 days and then the entire family is off...to DisneyWorld. Amusement.Parks.Suck.Ass. Enough said.
And My Point, And I Do Have One, is:
I started this damn blog and now I'm going to have to abandon it, in essence, for several weeks. And I've gotten kind of attached to my new bloggy friends and my favorite bloggy sites and I'll miss you. I will try to check in and update but it's going to be pretty lame and pretty thin for a bit. Please, please hang in there with me. I'll be back.
Hopefully with some kick-ass stories about Athens/Santorini/Crete and The Big Fat Indian Wedding and......Hades.
And if your May is half as crazy as mine and you feel like you never can catch a break--or your breath--click on one of these links and escape to Greece with me. I'd love some company.
Athens
Santorini
Crete
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wrong-Ass Food
When I was in the third grade, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and given a 2% chance of survival. As you can imagine, she was in the hospital for some time. My dad travelled extensively for business and so my sister and I were basically at the mercy of hordes of visiting relatives. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, second cousins--you name it--everybody got a turn.
It was a pretty rotten time, and I hardly remember anything about that year, actually. But I do remember the week when my Wild Uncle Johnny was in charge of us. Uncle Johnny (my mom's older brother) was a glamorous dude. He was a world traveller, linguist, art collector, genius and unabashed gourmand.
The week he took care of us, Uncle Johnny had just come off a trip to Europe, and he declared it "International Food Week" at our house. Every day my sister and I hustled home from school, anxious to see God-Knows-What Uncle Johnny was whipping up in the kitchen. We did our homework at the kitchen table, watching him saute, braise and fricassee and in turn, he regaled us with stories of the exotic lands he'd seen. It was way better than the Travel Channel, believe me. He also introduced us to some pretty interesting food.
Under his tutelage, we tried vichyssoise (cold potato leek soup...delicious, by the way), steak tartare (my sister barfed for hours after that meal), real Texas tamales, oysters Rockefeller and spaghetti carbonara, to name a few. That blue-eyed rascal mesmerized us, that's all I can figure, because getting a third grader to happily sample cold soup and raw beef and shellfish with spinach on it is no easy task.
On the third day of his visit, I opened the refrigerator and almost peed myself. There, on the top shelf of the refrigerator, loomed a gigantic glass jar of--what the Hell was that floating in the jar, anyways?
"Pickled pig's feet," he replied nonchalantly, reaching into the refrigerator for a beer. "Absolutely delicious, mark my words. You'll love it."
The rest of the afternoon, I kept sneaking back into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and gawking at that enormous jar. I was so small I had to crane my neck back to even see it properly and even then, I couldn't believe what I was looking at. Pig feet. Cut off. Floating in brine. It was then I realized: there is some wrong-ass food in the world.
I can't remember if I tried the pickled pig's feet. My guess is probably not. I can't ask Wild Uncle Johnny about it because he died last year. And now that I'm older and have seen more of the world (and the supermarket), I realize that just about every country has some item of wrong-ass food in it.
Haggis. Admit it, that is wrong-ass food, you Scottish freaks. Lutefisk. Hello? Norwegians? Don't you know that lye kills people? And you're soaking your fish in it? Head cheese. You Brits are crazy motherf*#kers, you know that, right?
And don't get me started on Asia. Asia is an entire Continent of wrong-ass food. Asians put stuff in their mouths that I wouldn't look at in a zoo. Balut (duck fetus, boiled, served in the shell). Sea slugs. Bull Penis. Fried spiders, crickets, grasshoppers, you name it.
Even places famous for their good food have wrong-ass food. France? Sweetbreads and calf brains. Italy? Cibreo (cock's combs...you know, that spongy wattle-y stuff on a rooster? Yeah, that.) Spain? Bull testicles.
Wrong-ass food is on my mind today because hubby and I leave for Greece in a few days. I am beyond excited to see, smell, touch and taste a place I thought I'd only ever see in my dreams. I am also compulsive as Hell because I've read three guidebooks and I still don't think I know enough. But I do know enough to have written on the inside cover of each guidebook: Dana, whatever you do, do NOT eat patsa or podi.
Patsa, that clever dog of a dish, sounds a hella lotta like pas-ta but it ain't, I tell ya. What menudo is to Mexico, Patsa is to Greece. And I don't care how quickly it's supposed to cure a hangover--I am not eating lamb innard soup.
I'm almost tempted to order Podi just for shits and grins. In Greek, the word podi means "foot." And what you get, if the guidebooks can be trusted, is a glutinous bowl of soup with a cow's foot floating in it. Now that is a tempting photo opportunity. Still, I think I will pass. Podi's got wrong-ass written all over it.
And if you think I've forgotten the good old U.S.A., you are wrong. I am an Equal Opportunity Crap-Slinger. Yes, my darling America, you too have plenty of wrong-ass food. Shall we start with, oh, I don't know......meat loaf?
***A Note to Uncle Johnny: Okay, you know I'm an agnostic and so you probably, if I think about it, can NOT hear this or see this right now, but here goes. You know that week you were here? That was one of the most memorable weeks of my life. All that cooking and CRAZY food and those nutty stories that probably had an ounce of truth in them? They swept me away. And now that I'm an adult, I understand exactly what you were doing. Thank.You.
It was a pretty rotten time, and I hardly remember anything about that year, actually. But I do remember the week when my Wild Uncle Johnny was in charge of us. Uncle Johnny (my mom's older brother) was a glamorous dude. He was a world traveller, linguist, art collector, genius and unabashed gourmand.
The week he took care of us, Uncle Johnny had just come off a trip to Europe, and he declared it "International Food Week" at our house. Every day my sister and I hustled home from school, anxious to see God-Knows-What Uncle Johnny was whipping up in the kitchen. We did our homework at the kitchen table, watching him saute, braise and fricassee and in turn, he regaled us with stories of the exotic lands he'd seen. It was way better than the Travel Channel, believe me. He also introduced us to some pretty interesting food.
Under his tutelage, we tried vichyssoise (cold potato leek soup...delicious, by the way), steak tartare (my sister barfed for hours after that meal), real Texas tamales, oysters Rockefeller and spaghetti carbonara, to name a few. That blue-eyed rascal mesmerized us, that's all I can figure, because getting a third grader to happily sample cold soup and raw beef and shellfish with spinach on it is no easy task.
On the third day of his visit, I opened the refrigerator and almost peed myself. There, on the top shelf of the refrigerator, loomed a gigantic glass jar of--what the Hell was that floating in the jar, anyways?
"Pickled pig's feet," he replied nonchalantly, reaching into the refrigerator for a beer. "Absolutely delicious, mark my words. You'll love it."
The rest of the afternoon, I kept sneaking back into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door and gawking at that enormous jar. I was so small I had to crane my neck back to even see it properly and even then, I couldn't believe what I was looking at. Pig feet. Cut off. Floating in brine. It was then I realized: there is some wrong-ass food in the world.
I can't remember if I tried the pickled pig's feet. My guess is probably not. I can't ask Wild Uncle Johnny about it because he died last year. And now that I'm older and have seen more of the world (and the supermarket), I realize that just about every country has some item of wrong-ass food in it.
Haggis. Admit it, that is wrong-ass food, you Scottish freaks. Lutefisk. Hello? Norwegians? Don't you know that lye kills people? And you're soaking your fish in it? Head cheese. You Brits are crazy motherf*#kers, you know that, right?
And don't get me started on Asia. Asia is an entire Continent of wrong-ass food. Asians put stuff in their mouths that I wouldn't look at in a zoo. Balut (duck fetus, boiled, served in the shell). Sea slugs. Bull Penis. Fried spiders, crickets, grasshoppers, you name it.
Even places famous for their good food have wrong-ass food. France? Sweetbreads and calf brains. Italy? Cibreo (cock's combs...you know, that spongy wattle-y stuff on a rooster? Yeah, that.) Spain? Bull testicles.
Wrong-ass food is on my mind today because hubby and I leave for Greece in a few days. I am beyond excited to see, smell, touch and taste a place I thought I'd only ever see in my dreams. I am also compulsive as Hell because I've read three guidebooks and I still don't think I know enough. But I do know enough to have written on the inside cover of each guidebook: Dana, whatever you do, do NOT eat patsa or podi.
Patsa, that clever dog of a dish, sounds a hella lotta like pas-ta but it ain't, I tell ya. What menudo is to Mexico, Patsa is to Greece. And I don't care how quickly it's supposed to cure a hangover--I am not eating lamb innard soup.
I'm almost tempted to order Podi just for shits and grins. In Greek, the word podi means "foot." And what you get, if the guidebooks can be trusted, is a glutinous bowl of soup with a cow's foot floating in it. Now that is a tempting photo opportunity. Still, I think I will pass. Podi's got wrong-ass written all over it.
And if you think I've forgotten the good old U.S.A., you are wrong. I am an Equal Opportunity Crap-Slinger. Yes, my darling America, you too have plenty of wrong-ass food. Shall we start with, oh, I don't know......meat loaf?
***A Note to Uncle Johnny: Okay, you know I'm an agnostic and so you probably, if I think about it, can NOT hear this or see this right now, but here goes. You know that week you were here? That was one of the most memorable weeks of my life. All that cooking and CRAZY food and those nutty stories that probably had an ounce of truth in them? They swept me away. And now that I'm an adult, I understand exactly what you were doing. Thank.You.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
