An Ugly Limbo

I will never claim to be the kind of person who does not complain about the weather. I hope you guys can forgive me. There is something about this particular transition of fall to immediate winter that really seems to throw me and the ones I love into a funk. I'm envisioning the next six months of bitter cold, slush on the ground and decreased sunlight, but am not quite to the point where I anticipate cozy nights with hot toddies and braised meats. It's an ugly limbo, October. 

Fried Pickles with Vanderbilt Ranch Dressing

One freak snowstorm later, November is here with its closed windows, boots and early sunsets. I am glad to say that I spent one of our final bonus days of summer a few weekends ago sitting in the window of The Vanderbilt, sipping a cocktail of tequila and grapefruit juice, acting like I will never stop wearing flip flops and sun dresses.

Breakfast of Fall Champions

My Sidekick is desperate for me to love fall. And to be truthful about it, I do. I love fall. What I hate is winter. And in New York, as in pretty much any other place I've lived, fall lasts about two weeks. Then, what happened today happens. The temperature drops twenty degrees overnight, winter is here early, all of our hearts die a little bit and we put our winter coats on to trudge through the next six months of slush.

I am deeply sorry for being this hyperbolic. Why am I even telling you this? Because I want you to stay inside tomorrow and make breakfast.

Happy Accidents with Vinegar

Oh, it's me, pickle-crazy again. Remember when I pickled everything in my apartment? Remember when some pickled okra left a crazy amount of extra brine? I poured it over these to make my favorite cocktail garnish to date.

Let’s talk Gibsons for a moment. A Gibson is basically a classic gin martini, garnished with a pickled onion instead of an olive. The perk? No one ever asks if you want that Gibson made with vodka or with gin. They just KNOW. If you're asking for a cocktail garnished with a pickled onion, people generally assume you're not afraid of flavor. Vodka drinkers: I'M SORRY. I just don't get you people.

On Pickles and Panic

I opened the fridge. All our homemade pickles had been consumed. I panicked. And then I pickled every single comestible in sight. 

Grumpiness, Meat and Gratitude

Sometimes you have bad days. Sometimes, you have bad days that follow other bad days, that have probably been piggy-backed by other bad days. Sometimes you are in a funk cloud that you can't get out of. If you are lucky, from this final, funky, cloudy, grumpy, bad day, you come home like a ravenous monster to your husband (or Sidekick) standing over this.

And then you feel pretty insanely lucky. Lucky to have him. Lucky to have the giant porterhouse he brought home searing in the cast iron skillet. Lucky to have two Manhattans waiting. Lucky to have a tried and true old MacBook in the background to write on, especially upon hearing the news about Steve Jobs. Lucky to been have brought up as a Mac nerd from the get-go. Just lucky, all around. So, from one lucky jerk to another, go do something awesome. And maybe eat a fucking steak. It will definitely make you feel better.

Jerry Orbach's Trifle

Just wanted to share the most amazing, nerdy food thing I've read about today. The Dead Celebrity Cookbook is for sale on Amazon as we speak, and I think I'd really like you guys to buy it. Also, please be on the lookout for my new punk-soul band, Jerry Orbach's Trifle. I am not kidding about this. This is really going to be the name of my (imaginary) band. I created our first album cover for our (imaginary) forthcoming, self-titled EP.

Have I mentioned that a seasonal change makes me a little weird? You're welcome.

Gloomy Outside, Gloomy Inside

Oh boy. Don't look outside. Seriously, don't. We're all just kind of dealing with the change of season pretty badly today. None of us want to write anything. Some of us might not even want to eat anything. We're grumpy. And I get why. Earth is messing with us. Here are a few things that might cheer you up:

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.