Pretzel making

Soft pretzels remind me of sporting events and carnivals- all feel good, summer night memories. I've had some with cinnamon and sugar, others with coarse salt, and even one wrapped around a hot dog. As a little experiment I bought a pretzel making kit, and put on my pretzel making hat. 

I mixed, kneaded, let rise, and rolled according to the instructions. The kit came with an illustrated tutorial detailing how to roll the pretzels in to their iconic shapes. While they were not perfect, they did resemble pretzels; I made them smaller than instructed because I was going to add some sin as toppings: cheddar, bacon, and scallions to be exact. 

Once rolled, the pretzels are dipped in a water and baking soda solution, then placed on a prepared pan in the preheated oven.

While the pretzels cooked for the first eight minutes, I grated the cheddar. 

At the eight minute mark, I removed the pretzels from the oven, rubbed each with olive oil, and topped with a generous helping of shredded cheddar and bacon bits. 

I rotated the pretzel tray before placing back in the oven and cooked for 5 minutes longer. Per the instructions, cook until the desired brown/done-ness, between 5 and 8 minutes. 

The warm pretzels were topped with chopped scallions and served with a spicy clam chowder that James had whipped up. 

Bread and cheese are among my favorites and while not the most nourishing, they make a strong case for the most comforting. Thus, it's not even remotely appealing to me to live a bacon cheddar scallion soft pretzel free life. The experiment was a semi-homemade success. 

Scenes from Sunday (5)

I would be lying if I said my family needed an excuse to throw a dinner party. Everyday is a dinner party.

Living with a chef, life is food-focused 90% of the time. The other 10% is allocated for sleep, but if dreams about mealtime count, then closer to 95% of our daily lives are spent around the table or planning what to put on said table. Before James came along designating me as household sous chef, my Italian heritage had already placed food at the core of my identity. My tapestry was woven in edible thread from the beginning. Pastas, pastries, produce and stew. Wake up thinking of breakfast, finish breakfast to begin planning lunch/dinner, and at dinner's end dream of dessert. The next morning, the cycle continues and it begins again. 

When I began writing this journal a few years back, I had selected the title "Pensive Foodie" for myself because a) I am an avid overthinker, hence pensive, and b) I relish in eating, cooking, reading of food, the foodie. The term "foodie" carries a pretentious connotation for some, insinuating refined culinary endeavors and tastes. Me, I enjoy food in its simplest forms. Crisp cherries, a warm chcocolate chip cookie straight out of the oven, or a crusty grilled cheese dipped in tomato soup. I'm no authority on obscure ingredients and don't use them often. I was raised on nourishing basics and never wanted for anything; happy and fed. Whatever was left in the refrigerator became a hearty soup, frittata or pasta. 

 I'll likely never be the caliber cook my grandma is. Her generation has something special that isn't readily replicated; I have much to learn from her. Making mistakes, and accidentally cutting or burning myself is commonplace. I still follow recipes most of the time and am more than contented to watch James in the kitchen, chopping vegtables by his side rather than do it by myself. I embrace my shortcomings but the ease and comfort with which he prepares food inspires me to become better. He assures me it takes practice and lots of mistakes to hone any craft. Regardless of my appreciation for the simple, I greatly admire the awe-inspiring skills of innovators in the industry, would skip, hop and jump at the opportunity to eat in lavish locales, and gawk with benign envy at folks who've made food a sustainable living whether styling, writing, or photographing. Nonetheless, I savor my personal dialogue with food - cookbooks, takeout, burnt cookies and all. It's in my power to orchestrate a dance among the ingredients, rendering the sum far greater than its parts and that's special to me. 

That brings us to Sunday. We don't make a habit of following soccer, but the World Cup final gave us the opportunity to make a few themed dishes. For the Argentines, we planned empanadas and a German potato salad for their opponents. Mom tracked down an authentic Argentinian market for the pastry circles. James instructed me in preparing the filling- ground beef, onions, garlic, green and jalapeno peppers, chili powder and a collection of other spices. It simmered long and on low. I turned out the pastry circles on to a floured surface and topped each with a generous helping of beef. I spread water around the perimeters and each empanada was sealed with a fork. In to the deep fryer they went. Meanwhile, I prepped a corn and black bean salsa, tapenade and guacamole for dipping. The lines blurred between the culinary traditions of multiple countries that afternoon but it was pleasing overall.  

We bit into piping hot empanadas, burned our tongues, and soothed them with fruit filled sangria. Animated conversation filled the kitchen and living room. After we had more than enough savory, coffee and cupcakes were dessert. The match began and we passively watched; it was never about the game anyway.

On Indian Lake

To celebrate America's birthday, James and I explored a lake of hers in Upstate New York for the weekend. We arrived Saturday in time for a quick lunch of hotdogs and hamburgers before our kayak trip across Indian Lake. Having not worked my upper body adequately in some time, I immediately felt the burn spread across my back from shoulder to shoulder. Cold water splashed on my legs as my rowing partner cut through the water in front of me. The air was crisp and delightful to breathe in. After a mile of paddling... left, right, left, right, we docked our canoes and headed to the top of the mountain on foot. 

The men said this was one of the easier hikes in all of Indian Lake, and the one with the best views. To me it hadn't felt very easy, but I made it nonetheless. The last 100 yards were nearly vertical, but with some reassuring words from myself to myself as I struggled for breath, I made it to the top and snapped this photo.  

The view after our hike. 

Once our energy was restored, we set out for the bottom, accompanied by a young family- a baby girl in her Dad's backpack carrier and a voracious bulldog. Three children were on their way to the top with springs in their steps and smiles on their faces. A short distance away we rowed to a series of cliffs, and I mustered the courage to jump off not once, but twice. The minute my feet left the cliff, I felt a moment of panic that I might die when I hit the bottom. Moments later I emerged from the cold water, unharmed and relieved.

 For dinner, James made homemade chili and grilled corn over an open fire using his Dutch oven. The women had wine, and the men had beers as we tucked in to hearty, cheddar chopped chili served with tostada chips. We walked to the fireworks in town and grabbed a spot on the hill just in time for dark to fall.  Before the firework display, a few youngsters released a lantern in to the air. I found it lovlier than the fireworks that followed but it was a fitting spectacle for Uncle Sam. 

Sunday we woke exhuasted, and sore, but embarked on another momentous day. James and my uncle went on a hike that ended in fishing, while my aunt and I went to a charming little beach. After swimming, reading, and a short snooze, we visited some antique stores and were inspired by the skill of local artisans and their creations. Grilled pizzas were dinner with a slew of toppings - assorted peppers, onions, yellow squash, zucchini, and pancetta. I snuck in an additional swim as the sun was setting on the dock. We will be returning, and often, as I have been won over by the allure of the lake. 

We adjusted our route home to pass through Lake Placid and watched some young hockey players skating on the ice where the Americans defeated Russia in the 1980's Olympics despite the incredible odds. After a ski lift and an elevator ride, we stood atop the launch pad for the Olympic Ski jump. Overwhelmed with admiration for America's athletes and the beauty of her lakes, we drove home grateful. 

Less is More (5)

Old becoming new again

My late grandmother and her family, used to cook on this very stove in my summer kitchen. I live in a two family house that my dad and his cousins grew up in. There is an additional kitchen downstairs because Italians can never have too many kitchens. It is fueled by a pilot light and has a nifty retro label in cursive. I feel like the value of cursive has been lost on our generation, but I still have this stove. It's so old that despite scrubbing with abrasive sponges, it will not come clean, but I feel this is to our benefit. It's a reminder of where we come from, and that old becomes new again. 

There is great comfort in remaining connected to my roots. They are strong roots, caring and resolved. Proof etched in grease remains from the makers before us, who prepared food for their families, my family, in the summer heat.

The unstoppable summer kitchen stove. 

A new flavor of iced coffee at Dunkin Donuts

I said once before that I look forward to my three o'clock iced coffee break, like a kid craves a visit to Disney World. And it is true. I allocate my projects and tasks at work around that three o'clock break, and frame it as a reward and indulgence. While coffee for some is black, mine is more like dessert especially since Dunkin Donuts partnered with Baskin Robbins to release ice cream inspired coffee flavors. I am weak in the knees for the Cookie Dough. I get my medium iced with one squirt of the Cookie Dough syrup (that stuff is sweet!) and some, well, cream. So much for a mere coffee break; how about a mini vacation. 

A bouquet

The littlest bouquet I ever received, and one of the more special ones. 

Children are remarkably resilient. They are creative and find solutions in the rarest of places. Along those lines, they also find joy in under appreciated situations. There are like walking, talking mini ambassadors for simple pleasure seeking. I've been spending some time with three special kids. The middle child walked up to me in the backyard with this tiny bouquet. It was only the size of my thumb, but it was beautiful, a gift from her to me. 

Making pickles

So far this season I have made pickles twice, with darling little gherkins from the Farmer's Market. The first pass was a great success and I thought to myself that I must have the pickling touch. The second pass, I parted from the recipe and improvised, adding additional items and in different orders to the brine. My mason jar filled with cucumbers nearly exploded two days later. I had even gifted one of the jars from the second batch to friends, and was horrified to tell them, "I think something is wrong with the pickles. Proceed with caution."  I do love pickles though and will certainly try again; the summer is long. James bought me a pickling book so I can build a stronger foundation. 

“Okay, this is the wisdom. First, time spent on reconnaissanse is never wasted. Second, almost anything can be improved with the addition of bacon. And finally, there is no problem on Earth that can’t be ameliorated by a hot bath and a cup of tea.”

— Jasper Fforde, Shades of Grey