Last week, I made two consecutive dinners that were so bad, they were demoralizing. Sometimes pride just ruins everything. Sometimes you do everything you normally do, in a recipe you know by heart, and it still comes out all wrong.
I couldn’t even tell you what happened; where the lesson to be learned revealed itself. The chicken thighs were over- and undercooked at the same time. The mahi was bizarre and squishy. There was nothing to be done about it except sulk into an ice cream sandwich (which also left a lot to be desired; it was an impulse buy and I don’t eat a lot of sweets).
Anyway, two dinners put the fear of God in me, so to speak, and I went gingerly into the third night. Grilled lamb, tomato-feta salad, salt & vinegar potatoes. A stupidly fancy wine. Cooked with a renewed sense of humility, the dinner came out perfectly.
Happy Hanukkah! In search of lost fish: exploring the smoked, pickled, salted and, in one instance, illegal fish of Jewish culinary tradition.
Now that kale isn’t much of a punchline anymore (not like it was a good one at the time), it’s time to celebrate its 10th anniversary in our collective American consciousness.
I made a very real, out loud groan when I scrolled through this piece on the Lake District of northern England, AKA where Taylor Swift and I would prefer to live out the rest of our respective days in monk-like silence (Adrian is invited, Joe Alwyn is not).
I mean, move this little listing that looks straight out of a Nancy Meyers fever dream right to the top of the Queen’s country and I am s e t.
As a friendly reminder, I publish a recipe every other week :)