Many projects I work on have a moratorium on sharing. Sometimes by me, other times by the publisher or editor who usually lets me know when I can start blabbing about it. Sometimes the lead times are long (a year or two in advance!), other times I just have to wait a month or two until whatever I photographed has hit the streets.
Of course, most of the time it’s ok to share a little bit via Instagram and Facebook, but I usually err on the side of caution and keep my mouth shut.
Which is painful when there are great recipes I want to talk about. Like this one. Oh my goodness, this one.
I am a peanut butter freak, and combined with an apple or banana it’s my standard sweet snack. I knew I’d love this recipe from Jenny Flake’s The Picky Palate Cookbook
I think I ate the whole damn thing.
February and March make me dream of summer. I want “summer” to sweep over me, leaving behind a vibe incomparable to other seasonal mind-sets. I have so many happy memories of summers past, and when these recollections come over me, I feel almost giddy with anticipation of good times ahead.
There is a scene in the Nutcracker ballet where the evil Mouse king dances with his mouse-followers beneath the giant Christmas tree at midnight. When I look at our tomatoes every morning, I envision something like this having gone on the night before. There are tomatoes strewn everywhere, little bites taken out of just-ripening cherry tomatoes, and big bites taken out of bigger tomatoes. Mr. Mouse or Mr. Rat is, apparently, also joined by his close personal friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hornworm (and all their prodigy), and a flock (or several flocks) of sparrows, all of whom enjoy illicit tomato-tastings under the light of the moon. It’s not hard to imagine how fun this is—we planted our tomatoes way too close together, so the two big rows form sort of a hedge. It’s really more like a forrest, and even I can appreciate the magical wonder of that leafy canopy when I am crawling around on my hands and knees in there looking for signs of invaders. It’s like a cool fort, stocked with candy.
Grilling, the most primal cooking method, is revered as summer sport by men everywhere. It's practically religion in one country, Argentina. This multicultural nation with a unique blend of nationalities, traditions, and customs can only have a renowned food culture. Known for tango, football, and Eva Perón among many other things, Argentina consumes the most beef worldwide and is the third largest importer. Argentinians pretty much grill anything to great effect. Steakhouses, called churrascaria, throughout the cities serve up meats straight from their spits and are sliced right at the customer's table. I can't imagine a better way to enjoy steak.
I love the crunch of radishes. It's a sound that resonates with all the radish-lovers in my family especially my mother, the biggest lover of the crunchy root vegetable. I learned to love radishes form her. At first I didn't appreciate their mild, earthy flavor, but then I came to love them more for their watery crunch. Then I discovered they could also be spicy and peppery. I have been an aficionado for many years now. Every spring I look for the best and brightest ones.