My love for doughy things knows no bounds. In fact, my all-time favorite food is bread - and pizza, gnocchi, and dim sum (or any kind of stuffed dumplings) are not far behind. When I was a child growing up in Ukraine, every morning would start with a walk to the local bakery to pick up the day's bread with my mom. The crusty-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside, still-warm loaf would be eaten with butter for breakfast, with kielbasa for lunch, and always alongside dinner, no matter what we were eating on any given night. To me, bread symbolizes warmth and comfort, . . .
One of the reservations I made right after booking our flight to Paris last winter was for Champeaux, a new-ish brasserie from Alain Ducasse in the revamped Les Halles market. When we got there two months later, the restaurant was gorgeous. Sprawling, with floor to ceiling windows, a wrap-around marble bar, and these sexy, black leather booths with Mad Men-era chairs opposite them. As we walked inside from the freezing cold, we were greeted by a friendly host, who quickly offered to converse in English. “No way, Jose,” I thought - I was fresh out of a French class . . .
Something happens to me at 3 o’clock every day during work. I get a ravenous craving for something at once sweet, salty and crunchy. In my past life (aka, before I cared about the connection of food and health), I would have raided my cupboards for salty pretzels, those soft-baked Chips Ahoy cookies, and oh, maybe even peanut M&M’s. Mmm… But by now, I’ve learned to satisfy the craving with a handful of roasted nuts and dried fruit, or garlicky hummus with carrots and Mary’s Gone Crackers. This craving can probably be attributed to the natural energy dip near . . .
As painful as it may be to accept, the last days of summer are upon us; it's not even September yet and we're already waking up to 55ºF mornings here in Syracuse. It's always a little sad to say "see ya later" to summer, but I for one am ready for sweater weather and weekend hikes through crunchy orange leaves. And don't forget all that fall baking! I'll take anything and everything with cinnamon, plzzz. Since the abundance of local summer produce will start to dwindle soon, too (well, at least here in the northeast), I figured now is the perfect time to round up . . .
When I still lived in Ditmas Park, one of my favorite Friday night activities was to order a giant burrito from one of the awesome Mexican places nearby (Cinco de Mayo and Los Mariachis, if you must know). I would 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 . . .
It's been over one week of my new life in Syracuse, and if you get my newsletter, you already know that I survived the move and things are going a-okay so far. First off, we love our new house, which has a backyard and a washer-drier (luxuries for city folk like us); we've already planted a small vegetable garden - and done several loads of free laundry, in case you were wondering. Turns out, it's pretty nice to be away from city stresses like crowds and noise, and to be surrounded by trees and greenery on a daily basis. Touché, Central New York. One of the best . . .
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 . . .