I know we all associate December with cookies, cocktails, yule logs and latkes, but what about the smaller, enduring festivities that often go overlooked, namely workplace and other potluck luncheons?
Things I Learned Hosting My First Friendsgiving On logistics • As I realized last week, what makes big meals (we had 16 people) scary isn’t the cooking as much as the sheer volume of it all and the logistics required to manage them.
So, I’m deep in my Friendsgiving planning for this weekend and I think I finally understand — and really, it’s about time, Deb — why Thanksgiving is so daunting, even for people who like to cook: it’s the volume.
Last year, I proudly announced my intentions to host a Friendsgiving dinner for our crew and we would do it up.
Because I don’t say it often enough, do know that one of my favorite things about this site is the way your presence, whether active or lurking, quietly provides the encouragement I need every time I want to tackle a dish or recipe that daunts me.
What did you do the last time you bought a head of cauliflower? Steam it? Grind it into rice? Puree it into a heap of hope that nobody will notice it’s not mashed potatoes?
At the end of July, a generally broiling, sticky month in New York City best experienced somewhere far enough away to catch a breeze not recently emitted from subway grates, I spied a recipe for a pork shoulder braised in chicken stock, aromatics, celery and thyme then torn into bite-sized shreds and tossed with broken-up pieces of lasagna noodles and finished with butter, lemon juice, parmesan and arugula that sounded so good, I had to make it the very next night for dinner.
There comes times in every cookbook author’s life that they have a very specific kind of gift to bestow on unsuspecting others — tasty, deeply loved dishes that were dismissed/ejected/left homeless in the editorial process because they didn’t make the cut.
One of the terrible things that well-intentioned food people do all of the time is get bored with things that everyone loves.
From time to time when someone learns that I’m married to a Russian, they’ll ask me if I can come up with a recipe for a Russian dish they’ve had, which is hilarious because I have never been to Russia, have probably only picked up 20 words (by generous estimation) in the 13 years we’ve been together and of the maybe five Russian dishes I’ve made, I’ve simply done them my mother in-law’s way.
September is like gateway or fake fall, appropriate considering that the season exists officially for only one-third of it.
It's not even October yet and my friends were already expressing pumpkin spice fatigue yesterday. I have just the antidote: ginger, turmeric, cumin, coriander, fennel, some lime juice and a chile.
Over the summer, my husband and I took turns taking our son to out for dinner one a week night to give him a break from (I mean, not to point fingers or anything) the occasionally yelling/food-flinging dinnertime antics of The Interloper, a.k.a.
September is my favorite in food, weather and outlook. The number of days above 90 degrees finally peters off.
I had lunch with Julia Turshen a couple months ago (mostly so I could fangirl out and try to sponge up some curl tips for my moppet) and one of my favorite things she told me was that when she moved from Brooklyn to upstate with her wife her cooking changed because all of a sudden she was doing it everyday.
Look, no one is ever going to marry me for my pavlova. (I mean, talking about dodging a bullet…) This one was particularly underachieving.
We are still in Portugal, which means, look away now. We are total blissed-out bores. The ridiculous truth of this vacation is that all the planning of it went down with the other family we are with when I was neck-deep in a book deadline and my husband had a bit of extra free time earlier this summer so I outsourced 100% of the decisions to them.
I enjoy chopping things but have no notable knife skills, no tuck, no game, but no shame either.