September 22nd, 2010
I tested out one of those neat Trader Joe’s ready-to-roll-out pizza dough balls last night. Briefly considered throwing the flattened dough in the air like some Mulberry Street pizza-parlor badass, but refrained.
Instead, I sliced up a ball of fresh mozzarella, opened a can of tomatoes (don’t dis, please; their flavor is often superior to fresh, ya know), and plucked a dozen-plus basil leaves from my parched little plant out back. Slapped it all on, sprinkled it with freshly ground black pepper and a drizzle of olive oil, and slid it into a 425-degree oven.
Nine minutes later, there it was in all its oozy, red-flecked glory. I goofed in putting the fresh basil leaves on top before baking it, as they crisped up into little grey-green wizened shards, so that wasn’t so hot, but the thing still tasted great. And looked pretty darn appetizing.
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August 30th, 2010
For the record, I’ve been married seven years and am not looking to ask people out or be asked out, thanks.
But, earlier today, struggling my way through a Greek salad - a pile of torn Romaine and red cabbage shards upon which teetered dolmades, Feta, cherry tomatoes the size of ping-pong balls and an obscene quantity of sliced gyro meat - I reflected on stuff I’ve eaten - or foregone - in the past to try to impress some dude on the other side of the table.
I dredged up my rules for the first time in a long while while nibbling on the last kalamata olive in my salad, which for the record was outstanding.
Out: spaghetti with any sauce, particularly a tomato-based one with heinous spatter potential. Fish that would require you to root around in your mouth for bones in an unattractive way (I guess Greek olives would have been similarly banned, come to think of it). Anything that might embed dark specks in your gums, from poppyseed bagels to devil’s food cake. Salad, period.
In: Chicken breasts or prime rib you could cut up into small, manageable bits. Rich things you could spoon up from a glass or a bowl, like cream of potato soup or a yogurt parfait. Plain bagels. Bland and boring food. Food often entirely lacking in color, devoid of zip.
Sad, huh? Lots of times I denied myself what I really wanted in favor of what I thought would not gross out the guy, or make him think I was trying to eat his entire paycheck.
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August 23rd, 2010
Small Man’s beginning his public-school career on Wednesday in a three- and four-year-old classroom offered by our fair city.
Aside from the mind-blowingness of my son wearing a uniform, learning math and colors or whatever kids his age learn, and being in a classroom for six hours a day, I am eager to seize the opportunity to cook more.
Because boy, have I fallen down on the job.
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June 15th, 2010
To take a three-year-old out to eat at a restaurant is to accept a few inherent risks.
As you enter, you cannot know whether the little person at your side will calmly swill his milk and nibble at the chicken fingers while you and your spouse chat over expensive cocktails, or whether a hellion will emerge unbidden, tossing bread slices, cutlery and candlesticks to the floor with abandon, jabbing at your food and ignoring his own.
Last night, Tall Man and I dined with the latter.
Small Man evidently was overtaken by a gremlin in our pre-dinner park romp, generating the kind of naughtiness that even fervent pleading and prayers to a higher being could not tamp down.
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May 24th, 2010
Will you bear with me as I try to sort out how to post photos on this here blog?
You’re seeing my first now.
This is a chocolate cookie crust beneath a blanket of Breyer’s extra creamy vanilla under a cloud of Cool Whip/marshmallow creme/creme de cacao/green food coloring/milk, all whisked together. The pie, a 1950s dessert staple, comes together in a springform pan. It is insanely easy. And the people who eat it at my house seem to enjoy it rather a lot.
This photo strikes me as vaguely X-rated. What do you think, dear reader?
