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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 hang . . .
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, . . .