When I lived in Ditmas Park, one of my favorite Friday night activities was to order a giant burrito from either of the awesome Mexican places nearby (Cinco de Mayo and Los Mariachis, if you must know), and devour it on my bed, in my 'jammies, while sipping on a Sixpoint Sweet Action and watching Netflix. I realize it's not the most glamorous activity for a gal to engage in on a Friday night, but after an exhausting week of work, rubbing shoulders with strangers at some crowded bar is no longer my idea of a good time. Can I get a "hell yeah!" from my fellow . . .
Are you sick of me talking about Cape Cod yet? If yes, I’m #sorrynotsorry… The thing is, we kind of live for this annual retreat from reality, and I honestly don’t know how people who don’t have a tradition like this stay sane throughout the year. This will be my last post on the topic - promise! (Until next summer, that is). As mentioned last week, this tradition was conceived nearly twenty years ago (!!!) by Rene’s aunt and her college friends - all of whom immigrated to the US from Poland around the same time in the late eighties/early nineties. All of their kids . . .
Rene and I had just spent a gorgeous day at the beach - complete with fried calamari and ice cream at our favorite ocean-view shack - and were driving back to the campground to start prepping a communal dinner with 20 or so of his closest Polish family friends. We stopped at a little farm-stand on the road to pick up some produce. I wasn't sure what I wanted to contribute to the meal, but seeing as it's been bright hot all day, we were in the mood for a salad. On the shelves, I saw some plump orange tomatoes, ripe peaches and fresh corn, side by side. I bagged up a few . . .
My childhood home was 10 minutes away from the beach by foot. From late spring up until September 1st - the first day of the Ukrainian school year - my mom would take my sister and I to the beach every single day. To clarify, she took us as well as a handful of other neighborhood kids; other times, we'd be taken by someone else's mom. Most days we'd get there by 8 a.m. to claim the coveted spot as close to the water as possible. The beach in Odessa is unlike any other I've been to since. The sand is fine and soft, the Black Sea warm, gentle and shallow. We'd . . .
Phoebe Lapine is someone I've admired for a long time. With her blog, Feed Me Phoebe, she manages to strike a balance between personal stories filled with self-deprecating humor, and seriously creative yet good-for-you recipes that make you go, "Hmm, why didn't I think of that?" When I finally got to meet her in person - when we co-taught a course on food blogging at NGI - I was thrilled to learn she was just as cool in 3D as she is on the interwebs (always a relief, isn't it?). Aside from writing an award-winning blog, Phoebe is also a culinary instructor, . . .
Whenever someone suggests bringing store-bought salsa to a party, my inner self shouts out a big “Noooo!” That’s because jarred salsa freaks me out. Why is it that something that’s supposed to be made from fresh vegetables can just sit there in a jar on a store shelf for months? How can those limp tomatoes and odd bits of tomato skin be remotely appetizing? And why does store-bought salsa always taste surprisingly sweet? A part of me wants to apologize for sounding like a snob, but I am not even sorry. And don’t get me started on packaged guacamole… *full body . . .
One of the most exciting weekends of the year for women in the food industry is the Cherry Bombe Jubilee. Whether you're there in person or following along on Instagram, this conference gathers all the baddest b*tches of the food world under one roof to meet, exchange ideas, and support each other. I've been lucky to attend for the past two years, and both times I've left with new friends and renewed motivation for what I do (this year I got to chat with Julia Turshen, Melissa Clark AND Molly Yeh! - all personal sheroes of mine). For 2017, Cherry Bombe added a second . . .