One of the many (manymany) benefits of the farmers’ market is the Technicolor burst of summer meals. The colors are brilliant, bright and arresting, drawing you in as they lie there.

Egg Salad
The substitute sunlight of nasturtium blossoms in a morning’s egg salad, accompanied by a midnight dark bowl of blackberries and blueberries.

Dill Salmon
The subtle greens of fresh dill contrasting with the pastel pink of grilled salmon and the earthy depths of cremini mushrooms (not to mention the inevitable nasturtiums on my salad).

Peaches and Cream
Honey-yellow peaches with burnished pink highlights half-hiding a billowing cloud of rich, white cream, freckled with cinnamon.

Blueberry Coconut Crisp
A big white bowl of blueberries, stewed until juicy and glistening, topped with crisp, toasted coconut.

My descriptions are no less purple than the fruit, but it’s hard not to let fly with superlatives when faced with such bounty.

Published in: on August 21, 2008 at 7:45 am  Leave a Comment  

A Year and a Day

What did we eat for lunch on June 23rd last year?


Reception Spread 1
Reception Spread 2
Homemade bread, compound butter, big salads of farmer’s market greens with raspberry-mustard vinaigrette, big bowls of berries, three kinds of cheese (including Gruyere, an aged goat and a tangy Brie-like cheese), a smoked salmon-pink peppercorn tart in an almond crust, and a three-layer fritatta, with a roasted red pepper layer, a spinach layer and a cheese layer.

And for dessert?
Wedding cake

Wedding Cake.

Wedding cake and lemon cheesecake

Specifically, an almond cake filled with mixed fresh berries and frosted with vanilla bean whipped cream and decorated with red currants and a lemon cheesecake topped with lemon curd and black currants.

And what did we have for lunch on June 23rd this year?
Anniversary lunch

Sea scallops wrapped in radicchio and pancetta, then grilled and served with a red lettuce salad from the farmer’s market.

The scallop recipe was beyond simple–sprinkle the scallops with salt and pepper, wrap each one in a radicchio leaf, and then wrap the leaves with a slice of pancetta. My slices were inexpertly wrapped at the butchers, and thus had unraveled. I ended up just wrapping it around and around and around each little radicchio bundle and securing the ends with toothpicks.

Who am I kidding–I used about 3 toothpicks per bundle. I am not good at food-skewering.

The grill caramelized the radicchio and infused the flavor of both the pancetta and radicchio into each scallop. In spite of the fiddly eating required by all the toothpicks, it was delicious, especially from our unaccustomed seats under our lawn umbrella (which we haven’t set up, sadly, since our wedding reception). Teacherman poured an Alsatian wine to drink alongside the meal–it reminded him perfectly of the wines from our honeymoon.

Lunch was wonderful, yes, but what did we eat for dinner? Last year, we didn’t eat anything for dinner. Our reception was still going on, and due to the enticements of the lunch board, we’d eaten too much of everything.

This year, though, lunch was elegant and austere. And so, for dinner:

Anniversary dinner

Chocolate-peanut butter cookies and chocolate-peanut butter ice cream. What’s the point of being a grown-up if you can’t do this sort of thing every now and then?

(I have to admit, though, that I don’t feel remotely like a grown-up. Even though I’m nearly 30, and even though I’m married, I still have to remind myself that I’m not a kid. Thus, of course, the ideal dinner of cookies and ice cream).

If you’ll forgive my sentimentality (and if there’s one day a year when one is allowed to be sappy, one’s wedding anniversary ought to be it): Here’s hoping that we always feel this ridiculously young, and that each anniversary is as lovely–and delicious–as this one.

Published in: on June 23, 2008 at 7:01 pm  Leave a Comment  

Avocado Heresy

As I have mentioned innumerable times, my father is from New Mexico. I grew up eating southwestern foods — like salsa — before they were well known in the rest of the country. (It was only a few years ago that I realized that they hadn’t been well known in the rest of the country. I just assumed everyone was eating that stuff).

I don’t have any deep, defining memories of guacamole from my early childhood. In fact, we may not have eaten it particularly often, or even at all. My mother went through a couple of cycles of trying to eat low-fat foods, and avocados weren’t on any of the lists of allowable items, no matter who you asked.

By the time I was in college (and my mother had switched to a moderation-in-all-foods mind-set), guacamole did make regular appearances at our dinner table — usually as a side dish, rather than a dip. We almost always ate it with salmon, I remember: each of us getting a heaping dollop on the plate next to our burnished fillet, the two meant to be eaten together in each bite.

For graduate school, I moved to Austin, TX, a place where one could scarcely avoid guacamole if one wanted to. I was possibly even more cash-strapped than most graduate students are (ask me sometime about the financial aid check that never arrived), but it never occurred to me to scratch the relatively expensive avocados off of my weekly grocery list. (That was probably a good thing. Given how little food I had to survive on, calorie-dense avocados [and my other contemporary indulgence, freshly-ground almond butter] may have kept me alive and healthy).

For all those years, though, I never deviated from the usual guacamole ingredients. Avocado. Tomatoes/tomatillos (my mother’s choice). Onion, jalapeno, lime juice, cilantro. Chop. Mix. Eat. The End.

It wasn’t until I was out of school and a full-fledged recipe junkie that I began to notice avocado recipes from other cultures. Sure, I was aware that things like California rolls existed, but it would never have occurred to me to make ersatz guacamole with wasabi, soy sauce and sesame oil. Or a Hungarian version with roasted red peppers, caraway and sour cream.

I never really cared for any of the variations. In many cases, the resultant mixture had too many flavors to taste of anything in particular, and, almost universally, the recipes called for the addition of another kind of fat–sesame oil, sour cream–which I found highly suspect. Avocados are practically made of fat (not that I mind); adding more of it seemed bizarre. The mouth-feel of the finished mixture went from silky smooth to mouth-coatingly fatty.

(This is one of the reasons that I’ve never seen a recipe for an avocado soup that appealed to me. 2 cups of heavy cream to 1 avocado and a paltry pinch of salt? Served hot? Pardon me while I try to get that mental residue off of my tongue).

Not to mention that things like sesame oil and sour cream have very strong flavors of their own, which tended to mask the actual flavor of avocado. If an avocado is in a recipe simply for the buttery texture and to heck with the flavor, just make a cream-cheese dip or flavored butter or something. Leave the avocado alone.

So I continued along my rigid — but merry — way, making traditional guacamole and eating enormous quantities at each sitting. Every now and then a recipe would worm its way into my mind and I’d try something new, usually disappointing myself enough to send me scurrying back to the salsa.

Last week I got the usual bug in my ear. I had a wonderful new middle eastern-inspired cookbook checked out from the library, and behold: its recipe for guacamole contained chopped preserved lemon rind (which I adore).

Aside from that one fanciful deviation, the recipe was what I was used to. Chopped tomatoes, cilantro, garlic, green chiles, onions: all these ingredients are traditional for middle eastern cuisine as well as southwestern American. I had high hopes for the result.

I peeled, pitted and chop/mashed two avocados, until chunky. I added several generous pinches of salt, a small clamshell’s worth of cherry tomatoes, halved, a big handful of minced cilantro leaves, a few spoonfuls of minced onion and garlic, and half of a minced Hatch green chile. (I do keep my loyalty).

I extracted one of my preserved lemons from its jar of salt, rinsed it off, scooped out and discarded the pulp, then finely chopped the rind. I added half of the resultant dice to the avocado mixture (saving the other half for another dish) along with a few spoonfuls of fresh lemon juice, to take the place of the usual lime juice (I couldn’t leave citrus juice out entirely). A few seconds of light mixing later: guacamole.


It was delicious. My mind was not blown and I did not fall to my knees and weep, but I was very pleasantly surprised by how well the preserved lemon rind fit into the guacamole. Its astringent saltiness was the perfect foil for the unctuousness of the avocado — fulfilling much the same role as jalapeno, in traditional guacamole. (Yes, this version had green chiles as well, but the parallel was undeniable).

This is a variation on my usual guacamole that I will definitely make again: I can see pairing it with a middle-eastern spiced fish, much in the same way that my mother pairs the traditional version with salmon. Maybe next time I’ll go wild and even try adding some sumac or za’atar.

*(Note: for the record, avocados and wasabi can coexist very peacefully in, say, an Asian-inspired mixed vegetable salad. Just leave out the sesame oil).*

Published in: on April 16, 2008 at 7:38 pm  Leave a Comment  

Celeriac Waldorf

I think I encountered Waldorf salad for the first time when I was 17.  Oddly, given that the dish is traditionally American, this encounter took place in Scotland, where I was visiting a friend.  Helen had a potluck party for me, and one of her friends (really the friend’s mother) contributed Waldorf salad, since of COURSE an American would want American food when abroad! 

I’d never eaten Waldorf salad before, and I must admit that I was horrified at the idea.  It’s only within the last several years that I’ve cottoned to the idea of fruit in savory dishes, and only a few years  before that did I finally accept that celery was a food and not a stringy, bitter poison.  (A lot of that had to do with discovering good celery, but I’m still not the biggest fan thereof).

I loved apples and walnuts, but the addition of celery took it beyond the pale, and mayonnaise?  With APPLES?  My gorge rose at the very thought.  I had, however, been Raised Right, and so I ate a portion, smiled and said thank you.  (I still horrified all of Helen’s friends, much to my sorrow, with my bizarre American manners, and inability to remember that in Britain, the word ‘pants’ does not mean ‘trousers,’ but ‘underwear’).  I don’t think that anyone ate more than a bite of that salad, and the next morning Helen surreptitiously tossed the leftovers in the garbage.

That one encounter catapaulted Waldorf Salad into my mind’s Revulsion Hall of Fame.  Every time I saw a recipe for it, I shuddered.  I blame its infamy for the length of time it took me to finally enjoy fruit in salads. 

Sometime, in these last eleven years, I discovered celeriac (also known as celery root).  I don’t know what possessed me to buy it for the first time–it’s so craggy and gnarled that it could almost be mummified, and on top of that, it has the word CELERY in its name. 

In any case, I did buy it, and, surprisingly, loved it.  Celeriac does taste like celery, but milder, sweeter, and with none of the stringy, hard texture that I found so objectionable in the latter.  I ate it in every possible way–mashed, steamed, made in hash browns, into gratins, and, most traditionally, into celeriac remoulade, wherein raw, grated celery root is mixed into a mixture of highly seasoned, usually homemade mayonnaise and a little cream, then eaten as a salad.

Last week, however, I was reading a new vegetable cookbook and noticed a title in the table of contents: Celeriac Waldorf Salad.  First I was shocked, and then I was intrigued.  The idea wasn’t as bizarre as my reaction had indicated.  As aforementioned, celery root DOES taste like celery.  And celeriac remoulade dresses the vegetable with mayonnaise.  And once I think I made that mayonnaise with walnut oil.  Hmm. 

After some considerable contemplation, I overcame my prejudices and made the recipe.  I peeled and grated a medium-sized celery root.  I peeled an apple (one of the Wealthies that I brought back from Wisconsin).  I tossed the shreds of both items with lemon juice, then salt and pepper, then mayonniase, some herbs, a little white wine vinegar.  I spooned the salad into a bowl and topped it with some dark-toasted walnuts. 

Huh.  It was pretty fabulous.  The mild sweetness of the celery root and the tartness of the apple contrasted nicely, and the lemon perked them both up (as lemon usually does).  The background was full of the grassiness of the herbs and the deep warmth of the nuts, while the creaminess of the mayonnaise tied everything together.

I do not think this alchemy could have been achieved in a Waldorf made with regular celery.  Aside from the aggressiveness of the flavor, in a Waldorf salad, both the celery and the apples are cut into cubes, making it almost impossible for the flavors to blend, and rendering the experience a bit like trying to eat a mouthful of pebbles.

Unlike most lunches, which I eat at lightning speed, so as to be off doing more pressing things, this one I savored, enjoying each nuanced bite. 

Published in: on September 23, 2007 at 6:37 pm  Comments (1)  

This Could Get Expensive

On Wednesday I tasted buffalo mozzarella for the first time. 

I’ve eaten a lot of fresh mozzarella since I discovered it five years ago.  Purchased, homemade, big, small and tiny, hot and cold, on soup and on pizza, every which way.  However, all of this mozzarella was made of cows’ milk.  It’s not that I object to non-bovine dairy products, but on the whole, buffalo mozzarella is more expensive than cows’ milk mozzarella, and I am not so flush that I can ignore the distinction.

On Wednesday, though, I wanted insalata caprese for lunch, and since I would be the only one eating it and I didn’t forsee any other occasions for mozzarella consumption on the horizon, I was reluctant to buy the 12-16 oz of mozzarella that most places sell in one container.  Instead, I blinded myself to price and bought the small container of one ball of buffalo mozzarella. 

At home, I chunked the tomatoes and tossed them in a bowl with Maldon salt and some of the enormous basil that my garden has lately been producing.  I sliced/chopped up the mozzarella, too, idly putting a naked piece of it into my mouth as I slid the rest into the salad bowl. 

Good lord! 

I actually dropped the knife.  I have never tasted anything like that before.  It was . . . it was . . . .  I almost called Teacherman on the phone at work to tell him that I just didn’t think I could handle it.  It was that good. 

And even though I have never had it before, what struck me about the taste was how familiar it was.  Not the familiarity of a long-cherished food, but the familiarity of the brain, where one KNOWS how things OUGHT to taste. 

It was creamy, with the shaggy texture of most mozzarella, but it can’t be compared at all.  I tasted the freshness and character of the cream, but the taste it most reminded me of was, of all things, buttered toast.  And no, it’s not that it tasted of butter, it tasted like nothing I can articulately describe–buttered toast is just the only thing that my overwhelmed brain can come up with.  It tastes like the idea of buttered toast remembered after a long abstention.   It had the deep flavor of something caramelized but the light freshness of of something raw.

Goodness.  Imagine how good it would have been if it had been really fresh; I hear buffalo mozzarella is best the day it’s made.

Published in: on August 31, 2007 at 6:41 pm  Leave a Comment  

Still and Yet

It is still much too hot.  I’m fully aware of the fact that my friends in Texas are sufferring temperatures to which the Midwest cannot dream to aspire (not that it would want to), but I’d still set our humidity up against theirs any day.  (95% humidity?  Couldn’t it just rain?)

As the degree of humidity rises, the degree of my patience lessens.  By this point I don’t want to spend more than 5 minutes making any meal, and no food substance should require the use of heat to render it consumable.  (When it’s 75+ degrees outside in the pitch black dark of night and one has to swim through the air, even morning tea is out of the question).

Unsurprisingly, I’ve been eating a lot of salads.  A big bowl, a few good ingredients, a little light chopping: dinner. 

Tonight was even simpler than usual.  No fruit.  No cheese.  No toasted nuts.  Into the bowl went about 5 ounces of baby spinach (torn into very small pieces), 1 fennel bulb (diced to microscopic size), 6 ounces of crabmeat and a dressing of lime juice, lime zest, champagne vinegar, vegetable oil, salt, white pepper, and a tablespoon of mayonnaise (because I had no desire to try to mess around emulsifying an egg yolk, but I still wanted the non-dairy creaminess of such an amalgamation). 

I tossed it all together, then sat in the coolest room in the house to eat it–mostly with a fork, but eventually with a spoon, when I got down to the bottom of the bowl.  The sweetness of both the crab and the fennel played off of each other–fennel isn’t as sweet as, say, corn, and it’s brightness and crunchiness elevated the richness of the crab.  The spinach was a chewy background for the strong flavors and the whole of the salad was very satisfying. 

I chased the meal with a perfectly ripe peach, so well chilled in the back of the fridge that it gave me brain-freeze.  Now, I should be able to get through the rest of the evening easily if I can just balance this bag of ice on top of my head. . . .

Published in: on August 10, 2007 at 7:26 pm  Leave a Comment  

Gang Aft Agley

It was not my intention to begin my much-anticipated two day weekend with excruciating allergies and a bum leg, but there I was.  I lurched around the farmers’ market, honking and breathing with difficulty, trying not to step down hard on my right leg, all the while carrying far too many bags of fruit at once.  (So many bags, in fact, that I pulled some of the muscles in my left shoulder).  I got back home at about 11:30, shoved everything into the fridge or freezer and went back to bed with a book.

I don’t think I ate anything that day besides farmer’s market samples, broth and lots of tea. 

Sunday morning I woke up absolutely ravenous, but still with a raw throat and useless nostrils.  When I stepped outside to walk the dog, it hit me: it was already in the 80’s and the humidity was near 90%.  I wanted something cold for breakfast.  I wanted something really cold.  I wanted ice cream.

I did not, however, have any cream.  Nor, truth be told, am I very good at making ice cream without Teacherman around.  Our ice cream machine is a modern frozen-cylinder deal, but it’s a hand-crank, and I don’t often have the stamina to force the dasher around for more than five minutes at a time.

BUT.  These two things were the case, and I was still determined to have ice cream.  I had mountains of frozen fruit.  I had yogurt.  I had a food processor.  There would be ice cream.    (All right, technically it was frozen yogurt, or even a very thick smoothie or something.  Shut up, she explained).

The first bag of frozen fruit I saw when I opened the freezer was filled with black raspberries.  My sluggish brain sparked.  There was a recipe for black raspberry-rose geranium ice cream in Local Flavors, a Deborah Madison cookbook I bought at the library’s last booksale.  I’d remarked on it when I first read the recipe (I love black raspberries.  I have a rose geranium), but then forgot about it amid the joys of less esoteric ice cream flavors. 

On the way back into the house with the dog, I grabbed a few rose geranium leaves.  These were washed, then pulverized in the food processor.  I poured a heaping cup of frozen black raspberries over the geranium leaf powder, then pulverized them, too.  I emptied a small container of Greek yogurt into the processor, added a few tablespoons of simple syrup, and pulsed until it was completely amalgamated.  Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream.

In fact, it really was like ice cream, and not frozen yogurt.  The tang of the yogurt wasn’t obtrusive, it just made the finished product taste fresh and light.  The main flavor was that of the black raspberries, with the rose geraniums as a tiny floral breath in the background, muting the raspberries’ somewhat piney aggressiveness.  It was smooth and frozen and perfect for my ravaged throat. 

Thus fortified, I spent the rest of the day cooking, making various things for my upcoming breakfasts (cherry-plum-almond crisp), and lunches (Spanish-esque meatloaf, roasted cauliflower), even finding enough inspiration to start a raspberry-rose geranium liqueur infusing away next to the nascent cassis.   

My last spurt of industry created my dinner–an arugula salad with blue cheese, peaches and walnuts, with a vinaigrette of white wine vinegar, walnut oil and grainy mustard.  Just as I sat finshed tossing it, though, the tornado sirens started.  I spent the rest of the evening sitting in the (empty) bathtub, eating my salad out of the mixing bowl and reading a silly novel, while the cat and dog cowered on the floor nearby.  This wasn’t how I intended to end my weekend, either, but the salad was certainly very good.

Published in: on August 6, 2007 at 6:56 pm  Leave a Comment  

More Cheese, Please!

In twenty-six days Teacherman and I leave for our honeymoon: two weeks in the German Black Forest and in Alsace (which, in spite of Teacherman’s pseudo-naive assertions, is in FRANCE).  We are both far too excited about the food.

Sure, we read all the guidebooks and marked down the museums and castles and natureparks and picturesque towns that we wanted to go to, but in the midst of this genteel cultural orgy there would inevitably come a shout from whoever was in the other room:

“Do you think we’ll be there during asparagus season?”

“Look at the website for this cheese shop!”

“Strasbourg geese!  That is all I’m going to say: Strasbourg Geese!”

I think our most extreme moment of glee came when we realized that the farmer’s market in Freiberg is held Every Single Day on the square directly out the front door of our gasthaus.  There was some imperfectly-suppressed joyous leaping. 

And, because I always like to know what I’m getting myself into, I’ve been trying to read cookbooks from the region.  For the most part, this was a futile excercise.  Hearty Germanic cusine is not remotely “in” right now, and both regions, Alsace in particular, tend to be slighted in books of recipes meant to represent the entire country (whichever one that happens to be).

I was elated, therefore, when I discovered Black Forest Cuisine by Walter Staib on the New-Book shelf at the library.   I won’t give a review of the book here–I don’t actually know enough about the subejct to be a reliable auditor–but I will say that I loved the recipes, the traditional salad recipes in particular.  They hearken back to the self-created salad recipes of my childhood (meat, cheese, dressing, ancillary vegetables), but are so far above them in quality and inspiration that they really can’t be compared thereto.

My current favorite is for something called a Camembert Cafe Frei.  A whole round of Camembert is broken into pieces and mixed with a finely chopped amalgamation of chives, onions, caraway seeds and paprika, then served on top of lettuce and sliced radishes. 

I made the recipe last Sunday night, as part of our travelling cooler-fodder picnic.  The cheese I used was not a Camembert, but a something-without-a-name-I-could-discern, from Normandy.  It was runny and pungant, though, so runny that it couldn’t be broken into bits.  Instead we sprinkled the oniony mix-ins over the top and ate it bite by bite, chasing the chives around the plate and dipping the cheese into them. 


I know that the taste of the final dish had everything to do with the quality of the ingredients (the amazing cheese, the chives and shallot [because I had no onions] from the farmer’s market) , but it was still a revelation.  It was incredibly rich, but not so rich that I wanted to stop eating it.  The radishes and the lettuce provided a contrasting spicy crunch that worked well as an alternate bite with the gooey cheese. 

This is a recipe worth saving.  And, more, worth hoping to find in Germany itself.

Published in: on June 1, 2007 at 6:24 pm  Leave a Comment  

Springtime Salad on a Winter Day

I’m beginning to believe that the weather in this town is controlled by some kind of evil genius.

One day the high will be over 80, then next, below 50.  It’s mid-May and instead of having spring we’re having alternate summer and winter.  Yesterday, on a blindingly sunny day, I had to wear two sweaters and a flannel shirt to work in the backyard garden.  Aside from all other annoyance about this sweltering frigidity (almost Freudian, that phrase), it’s wreaking havoc on my meal planning.

The day I went grocery shopping, it was extremely warm.  With visions of cool meals on the back patio in my head, I bought various lettuces, herbs, and tender salad vegetables.  By the time I came to use those ingredients, it was freezing outside.  With no other choice, I made salads anyway.

I plucked the romaine lettuce out of the fridge, along with some cilantro, some deli ham and a jar of pepperoncinis.  I have a weakness for pickles of any kind, and spicy things are a life-long (at least a two thirds of my life-long) favorite.  Pepperoncini make their way into many of my salads.

Remembering a recipe I’d seen the other month for a salad dressing made of avocado, I took two of the things out of their ripening bag on the counter (full disclosure: it is a paper lunch bag with an apple in it) and set to work.  I peeled and pitted one avocado and put it in the food processor along with nearly an entire bunch of cilantro, a shallot, and some garlic.  I added in a squirt of lemon juice (that is what had struck me about the salad dressing recipe–it used lemon juice with avocados, instead of the more usual lime juice) and a glug of oil, put on the lid, and blended it up.  It was a little thick, but I like stiff, thick dressings, especially on crunchy lettuce like romaine. 

I poured equal portions of the dressing into our two enormous salad bowls, then topped it with chopped romaine (one heart per person), chopped ham, stemmed pepperoncinis and the second avocado, cubed.  I had, of course, forgotten to add salt (a perpetual problem), so I crushed some kosher salt over all, ground on some pepper, and then tossed the salads. 

It was light and cool and delicious.  The dressing coated the leaves substantially, but not heavily, and the crunch of the lettuce kept it from being too unctuous, in the same way that the mild tang of the pepperoncini cut through the mellow sweetness of the ham.  Teacherman, who has a furnace burning inside of him, thought it was the most perfect lunch imaginable.  I thought it was tasty, too, but I might have wished for something slightly less chilly.   I buttoned up my overshirt, but I also scraped the bowl.

Published in: on May 15, 2007 at 5:56 pm  Leave a Comment  

No Excitment

After Sunday’s proto-nuptial feast, nothing has been very exciting.  The meals have all been good–entirely comforting and satisfying–but no dish has made me want to leap up from my seat and run to the computer to tell everyone about it.

There was a chuck roast rubbed with chipotle powder and cooked with tomatillos, zucchini, carrots and tomato sauce: spicy but mellow and perfect for leftover lunches with a crisp salad.  There was a cherry-yogurt panna cotta with vanilla cherry sauce that made an indulgent, creamy breakfast.  There were the fish cakes so full of herbs that they were virtually green, with a lemon-horseradish sauce and a radicchio-endive-arugula salad (too bitter for Teacherman, but just right for me).  Tonight there were ample bowls of tofu laksa, slippery with shiritake noodles and bean sprouts, silky with coconut milk and tofu, with a faint memory of chile and utterly lacking in verve. 

This cannot go on. 

Comforting fare is all very well and good, but it isn’t enough.   Unfortunately, though, Teacherman and I will be away from home for both lunch and dinner tomorrow (more wedding-related meetings)  which considerably reduces my immediate scope for shocking our meals back to life.  There is, however, tomorrow’s breakfast. 

Teacherman does not know it yet, but that forthcoming morning meal will be arresting, invigorating, and above all, exciting.  I have no firm plans, but after a concentrated period of opening cupboards, my brain is spinning with ingredients, equipment and ideas.   So many ideas, in fact, that they may spill over onto Sunday’s breakfast. 

And I think I see a jar of harissa off in the corner. . . .

Published in: on May 4, 2007 at 8:04 pm  Leave a Comment