I am making a meat ragu today for Sunday dinner. In a rather unfortunate coincidence, my downstairs neighbor (the one who accuses my tiny kitten of making as much noise as an elephant) is also making a meat ragu. Chances are good that my meal will suffer by comparison–this woman grew up in Naples, after all–but I’m not ceding the battle until it’s over. Don’t get fooled by the assless chaps and smartphone zombies: turf wars are serious business here in East Williamsburg.
There’s some debate about whether the first day of fall was yesterday or today but my internal clock already knows what time it is. It’s time to start cooking, and with the rich, rewarding flavors that arrive in the greenmarket right about now. Over the weekend I carmelized those figs. Yesterday I made a wild rice dish with roasted squash and sage and apples. Today a lamb stew with potatoes and carrots and thyme and a healthy splash of beer is whispering my name. I know the weather is gorgeous; I know everyone’s running around like a happy chicken with their head cut off. But for me, this season is always about communing with my kitchen. As the nights grow cool, this is where I’ll be–puttering about in slippers, tying on an apron, and stirring my witch’s cauldron while old R&B soars through my speakers and the rest of the world glitters outside my window. Blessed Mabon!
September Saturday morning: Dressing like a camel lady (flannel plaid shirt; long print skirt; beat-up Birkenstocks, albeit silver ones). Digging on Prince channelling Bonnie Raitt through my kitchen speakers. Carmelizing figs with honey and sliced almonds and sea salt and thyme. Spooning it all in with a splash of sheep’s milk yogurt on the fire escape. Trusty grouch-kitty sitting pretty by my side. My early-morning life, thus framed.
I am making a meat ragu today for Sunday dinner. In a rather unfortunate coincidence, my downstairs neighbor (the one who accuses my tiny kitten of making as much noise as an elephant) is also making a meat ragu. Chances are good that my meal will suffer by comparison–this woman grew up in Naples, after all–but I’m not ceding the battle until it’s over. Don’t get fooled by the assless chaps and smartphone zombies: turf wars are serious business here in East Williamsburg.
There’s some debate about whether the first day of fall was yesterday or today but my internal clock already knows what time it is. It’s time to start cooking, and with the rich, rewarding flavors that arrive in the greenmarket right about now. Over the weekend I carmelized those figs. Yesterday I made a wild rice dish with roasted squash and sage and apples. Today a lamb stew with potatoes and carrots and thyme and a healthy splash of beer is whispering my name. I know the weather is gorgeous; I know everyone’s running around like a happy chicken with their head cut off. But for me, this season is always about communing with my kitchen. As the nights grow cool, this is where I’ll be–puttering about in slippers, tying on an apron, and stirring my witch’s cauldron while old R&B soars through my speakers and the rest of the world glitters outside my window. Blessed Mabon!
September Saturday morning: Dressing like a camel lady (flannel plaid shirt; long print skirt; beat-up Birkenstocks, albeit silver ones). Digging on Prince channelling Bonnie Raitt through my kitchen speakers. Carmelizing figs with honey and sliced almonds and sea salt and thyme. Spooning it all in with a splash of sheep’s milk yogurt on the fire escape. Trusty grouch-kitty sitting pretty by my side. My early-morning life, thus framed.