pleasurable

bending over a stove of boiling spaghetti and allowing the steam to steam open your pores. the bubbles on the surface also provide a meditative focusing point for reflections on matter, convection, the universe.

my kombucha culture is coming along nicely. you are jealous.

in which carol completes the transition to southern california hippie-dom

peanut butter to your jelly

i was around 5 or 6 and reading judy blume's entire oeuvre for children when somewhere in the fudge series (maybe?), i learned the concept of 'the bite'. 'the bite' was illustrated with butter, but also applies to jam, peanut butter, nutella, and/or honey. 'the bite' is the philosophically perfect part of a sandwich, and it occurs when you slather a piece of bread with sugary goodness, fold it over, and take your first bite right smack dab from the center of that fold where the topping gathers up and its gooeyness is enclosed by soft crustless bread. it is the absolute yum.

also, today at work i convinced a teenage girl that rihanna, and no one on this earth, can "deserve" a beating from chris brown. activism, bitches!

para la cena

baked trout with ginger and lemon, tamari sauteed turnips and collard greens, and yellow split pea soup. bring your own vino.

i had a dream this afternoon about losing my clothing in the ice-fishing portion of a maze, backtracking only to find that i would have to sign an animator contract to get my clothes back, and rushing to negotiate with a glenn close-like character in a spa, only to realize that i had printed my resume on a bar of soap. hmm. life.

say cheese

in seventh grade english we read i am the cheese, by robert cormier. my then best friend and i, in our perverse adolescent boredom, started a game in which we rewrote the lyrics of contemporary pop songs to be about cheese. examples that i recall were i want it with pate and eat me baby one more time, by the backseat toys and chutney spears, respectively. years later, i find i have not outgrown such hijinks:



i'm going to getchu getchu drunk
getchu drunk, off my brunch--
my brunch--my lovely lady lunch
-my brunch, by the black iced teas

combination of factors

i had just come back from a day trip to san diego. i lounged about the apartment, watching top chef and then reading an experimental food blog from one of my favorites. i had lettuce, tomatoes, and burnt cashews with homemade lemon-tahini dressing for dinner. i thought a lot about how i became date-able material during my post-dinner walk. somehow, this confluence of events led me to purchase the following when i went to my corner armenian grocer:



which, in belarussian (the birchful country of origin), is spelled like:



it tastes like the water runoff from the sweet fermented rice my mother used to make back in the day, but intentional. ethnic grocers--your prime go-to destination for food and fascination under $20!

and it matches my socks!

para la cena: mideastern platter with raw bell peppers and tahini, oven-toasted lavash bread (the best culinary idea i've had in a looooong time!), and mixed olive/portabella/roasted garlic tapenade. contrary to what the blog suggests, i've actually been too busy to aliment myself properly, which is why i consider today a triumph.

the fancy glasses were completely necessary

y'all hate me because i live down the street from a grocer that sells cheap strawberries and kefir, y'all. y'alls be jealous because this, and approximately four glasses of matcha green tea that will send my pulse wildly skipping through the roof, is breakfast.

i paid a dollar for kukicha tea?

never again will i be seduced by your oriental teas, macro mama's. never. but it kept me warm as i sat on the docks of cayuga lake on a chilled sunny day, taking in my weekly farmer's market.

there's a reason why i head for the cambodian food stall at the farmer's market unfailingly, every time. it is distanced enough from the generic brand of asian food to be novel and exciting while retaining all the qualities of tasting like home--home in the sense that you feel like you're tasting something embedded so deeply in a cultural memory you can't quite remember. elements of comfort food according to southeast asia:

-white rice. rice flour. rice noodles. rice anything. if you don't eat rice, you are probably sipping tea and thinking of conquering people who do.
-bean/root vegetable in a mushy/pasty form. ex. taro (mmm!), monk bean (yes!), red bean (ehhh).
-something rich and creamy, like peanuts or coconut milk.
-the suggestion that a wok was used in the making.
-slivered winter vegetables.
-glutinous dipping sauce.

a far cry from mashed potatoes and apple pie, or whatever floats the anglo boat. my khmer pancake lasted all of 5 minutes, and it was beautiful.

para la cena

sauteed kale, carrots, onions and cannelini beans in a balsamic reduction. und, beer!