The Way Marcella Told You to Make It

I remember cotton candy. I remember one of my little hands in my mother's milk-soft hand and the other in my father's leathery baseball mitt hand. I remember white overalls with paint splotches on them. Wearing pig-tails that fell into ringlets. I remember running toward something, the zoo or State Fair, a spectacle larger than my brand new brain could understand. I remember being swung back and forth by my arms through the air, and my parents being really excited to show me something. But most of all, I remember cotton candy.

Seriously. These are your ingredients.

This is one of my first memories. And one of my favorites. I have no idea how old I was. Maybe three? It stuck with me. I totally abandon all culinary principles in favor of cotton candy every time. There is a picture of this moment somewhere. **(Update: Not just somewhere, after the jump! Thanks, mom!)** Even if it were lost, it's been permanently burned into my cortex.

What Else Do You Have to Do?

Oh, guys. You know for certain that I am enjoying this oddly temperate winter. Although I am sure it means we are all going to actually be cooked by the sun sometime soon, I love it. However, even I’ll fess up and say that there are benefits to cold weather. For one, it’s nice to be able to have the oven on for hours without melting into a puddle.

This is Really Mac and Cheese

We haven't really talked about this yet.

This is what it should look like.

There are few reasons for this:

Punch Drunk

The Fred Swayze/Shivery McPickles union turned one year old last month. To celebrate, we were supposed to be in Spain for our honeymoon. Unfortunately, as you all definitely know, my Sidekick had to get - well - re-stacked this summer, so we've postponed. To soothe the burn of having to reschedule our ham and txakoli-oriented trip, we threw a bitchin' party centered around a giant bowl of punch.

If that looks like the sun rising over the horizon to you, it's no coincidence. This mother holds three gallons.

My Sidekick was in charge of the punch. A no-nonsense hell-broth of bourbon, citrus, maraschino, orgeat, bitters and sparkling wine that tasted like juice, went down like water and made everyone's cheeks especially rosy. I was in charge of the snacks.

The Godfather - Redux

*Ed note: This post was rescued from interweb purgatory by Marc Balgavy. For this feat of courage he'll receive a whiskey when I see him next.*

Okay, you guys. It's time to talk about it. Well, almost. First, let's talk about how things sometimes take you by surprise. How, sometimes you think that prunes are sort of gross and you don't care about them, and then someone changes your mind.

No one has ever asked me to steam a prune before. Quite frankly, I don't steam much and the recipe for Bacon and Prunes, Baked (Hot) made me realize that I don't really even have a proper steaming basket.

And Then Sometimes, You Really Need a Sandwich

As everyone around me knows, I get really hard to deal with in March. It's cold when it should be warm, winter when it should be spring and we have more potatoes and parsnips when we should have ramps and asparagus. I get antsy, what can I say? So, sometimes, when you're eating lunch at your desk because somehow you are the person someone agreed should be in charge of budget data entry every two weeks (believe me, I don't know why either) something as simple and lovely as the cross-section of your Lenny's sandwich can really brighten your day.

Learn to Steal

Sometimes I run out of ideas. Sometimes, I feel like I make the same soup, stew, roast, braise in different variations over and over again.

 

And then sometimes, benevolently, someone will invite me to dinner at their place and inadvertently give me something to steal. Which is exactly what happened when some of our dearest friends invited us over for a Feast of an Indeterminate Amount of Fishes.

Politics and Artichokes

Indulge me. I'm having a moment of philosophical weakness. It doesn't happen very often and I promise to reward you, somehow, later, for putting up with it. I need to talk to you guys about politics. Not American politics, not office politics, not even really food politics exactly (I promise not to talk about Michael Pollan right now), but more the politics of how we think about, talk about and own food. I've had a few conversations in the recent past that have really set me to thinking.

The first was with my uncle Mitch last week. Mitch is one of my favorite people to eat with. He's a trained chef - out of professional kitchens now - but always putting his skills to good use for friends, family and the occasional competition. He's also a fucking grump, which is what makes me like him so much. While in the midst of an excellent blogging project on eGullet with a few friends, he invited me over to participate in their "mystery basket" challenge. While we chopped, snacked and sipped - as always - on a cocktail or two, we got into a conversation about cooks, chefs and the way we define them.

La Preparación

As my Sidekick and I begin to consider our upcoming honeymoon in the Basque country, I've careened deeper and deeper down into the rabbit hole of my obsession with all things Spanish and edible.

Getaria. I want to go to there.

This morning, while I adoringly perused this week's editions of Ruth Reichl's gift guide, I discovered a veritable mail-order wonderland: La Tienda. Holy mother, where have you been all my life?

Leekfest 2010

Oh, you guys. Don't get sick. Just don't. It screws everything up. Including writing about insane cooking projects you endeavor upon with your friends.

Leekfest 2010 was one of those endeavors. It began innocently enough, when my friend mentioned she was confounded by leeks.