Man. Just when I thought I’d licked this cold, it bounced back up for another round.
Last time I tried to tame the ickiness with a kiss of citrus. This time, I’m bringing out the big guns: capsaicin, and lots of it. I wanted to save this recipe for Christmas, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
It’s hot and sour soup time.
Oh, hello, cold and flu season. I was wondering when you might show up.
My coworker has a hellacious sniffle. Several of my friends are feverish. The woman standing next to me on the train this morning kept wiping her nose with her hand and then grabbing hold of the handrail. So when I caught myself feeling a little woozy at work and desperate for sleep, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
Bring on the soup!
And now…from diabetes to cornbread. (How’s that for a segue?)
After a chilly, dry winter, the rain has finally arrived in Northern California. This is the kind of weather that fleece blankets were made for. Sam has been begging me for weeks to make chili, and it finally felt like the weather gods were giving me a directive.
But with chili this good, we needed something to mop the bowl. And my trusty cast-iron skillet felt due for a baking workout. Helllllooooo, cornbread.
So. Paula Deen has Type II diabetes.
I was talking about this last night with Kate, who’s always my voice of food-related reason. I told her I was tempted to blog about it. She made a face. “Really? Are you sure you want to go there?”
I wasn’t sure. At all.
But I’ve had some time to stew about it, and I realized that, yeah, I do want to go there. Because I think there are some very good reasons to be concerned and indignant about Paula Deen’s announcement. Just not the reasons a lot of people are giving.
Chalk up today’s post to “experiments in high-altitude cooking.”
I spent the weekend with friends at a vacation home in Mammoth Lakes, California. At nearly 8,000 feet above sea level, it’s a ski and snowboard haven. We neither skied nor snowboarded–the winter’s been so dry that the resorts are resorting (heh) to exclusively man-made snow. Plus, the only winter sport I’m really interested in is sipping wine in a hot tub.
So we mostly stayed indoors, away from the punishing bone-dry winter winds. We cooked big communal meals. I improvised a cozy broccoli soup–quite literally, out of thin air–that somehow got lots of compliments. Not bad, given that we had trouble getting water to boil hot enough to cook pasta.
When I went to St. Petersburg for a summer abroad during college, I was fully expecting to love it–the canals, the palaces, the riotiously colored onion-domed cathedrals, the museums, the music, the cafes with storied literary names, the languid blue dusk of the White Nights.
What I didn’t expect to fall in love with was the food.
Russian food, at least as my friends made it out, was bland. Heavy. Unimaginative. Potatoes, sour cream and beets for weeks on end. I don’t know why I was surprised when my friends turned out to be wrong.
And the cakes just keep on coming. Don’t judge; it was my birthday this weekend.
I had a conundrum when planning my birthday cake this year. I was throwing a Communist Party–vodka drinks, red paper plates, Russian snacks and a 1960’s Cold War movie–and wanted to make a red velvet cake. (Get it? Get it?) But the red in red velvet cake almost always comes from food coloring, and the quantity of red food coloring used tends to make cake taste metallic and sharp, like licking the side of a flagpole. At least, it does to me.
So I wanted to try a dye-free cake. I poked around for an alternative, and found a recipe for a cake infused with red wine. Yum.