I love the internet. (I also loathe and fear it. It’s a complicated relationship.) My modest little blog has started connecting people in unexpected and delicious ways, and I am just tickled pink.
For example, the lovely and talented Daisy stumbled across this blog a while ago, and commented on a recipe I posted. My (also lovely and talented) friend Molly saw Daisy’s comment, and clicked over to her blog. Molly made and loved several of Daisy’s recipes, and now Daisy’s spaghetti squash with sausage and tomatoes has gone into heavy rotation at Molly’s house. And I, the not-so-innocent bystander, sit on the sidelines and clap with glee.
Over the weekend, a big group of friends gathered for an impromptu dinner, and Molly spearheaded the making of a giant batch of squash. Four squashes, to be exact, and three skillets of sausage and tomato, with at least two bottles of wine and a growler of beer to keep us company while the squash roasted. Following Molly’s lead, we tweaked the recipe slightly from the Italian-inspired original, subbing in chorizo for the Italian sausage and adding a fat glug of red wine to the sauce. It made a satisfying mess of the kitchen, as we tried to fork the squash into strands while it was still hot and ended up dropping bits of it all over the stove. (I have the burned fingertips to prove it.)
If you haven’t yet experienced the smell of chorizo, tomatoes, red wine, and garlic cooking in olive oil, I highly recommend it. It’s the kind of smell I would happily wear as perfume, if only I could bottle it. We used Mexican chorizo–the raw, squishy kind–which gave the sauce a sharp sour-chili warmth and a slight bitterness. You could just as easily use the hard-cured Spanish chorizo, which would give a sweeter, smokier flavor and provide more of a chewy texture contrast with the noodly-crisp squash. Either way, the squash will drink up the fatty, winey sauce and become far more delicious than a vegetable has any right to be.
I can’t believe I let Valentine’s Day go by without posting about this.
The other day, I was digging around in Sam’s fridge, and found a bottle of rosé wine I’d bought ages ago and never used. I opened it and poured myself a glass; it was gently floral, floaty-light, sweet without being syrupy. Then I did some more digging, and found a bag of frozen raspberries in the freezer. Then the wheels started turning…and the result was a delicious and slightly different take on raspberry sauce.
My brain is fried.
Work is craaaaayzay.
I have to start looking for an apartment soon.
My synapses are slowly fraying. I can hear the “plink! plink!” of connections severing in my head. Just directing my fingers to write words in this text box is exhausting.
So here’s something I made last weekend. It was yummy. You should try it.
Hello, blog. I’ve missed you.
The past few weeks have been…strange, to say the least. My father was diagnosed with cancer, and suddenly our family had to learn a whole new vocabulary.
Tumor. Malignant. Carcinoma. Radiation. It’s amazing how a few singular words can suddenly taste so different rolling off your tongue.
Thankfully, the only words in our mouths right now are ones of relief and gratitude. Dad is healing at warp-speed, and (fingers crossed) on the way to being certified tumor-free. We’ve moved on from swarming and fussing and waiting with fingernails in our mouths, and settled back down somewhere near normal. It’s been a wild ride.
Time for some comfort food.
How to add a much-needed fancy flourish to the end of a stressful week:
This is a post about balls.
A controversial topic, to be sure. Some people grew up with them; some didn’t. When it comes to taste, some like them soft and giving, others firm and round. Some like them small, compact, easy on the tongue; some want them so big you couldn’t fit them in your mouth even if you tried. There are some people who don’t even like them at all, but–if we’re being truly honest–that’s something I just can’t identify with.
Traditionally, especially in the springtime, these balls are often consumed alongside a hunk of beef–though, again, some folks just don’t swing that way. But at least everyone can agree on how the whole thing gets started: a thick paste of eggs and ground matzo, shaped into spheres and simmered in salted water or broth.
Wait, what did you think I meant?