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If I have a few unspoken for hours on a Sunday, I’ll make pasta. Fettuccine is the preferred meditation. Something about the thick strands. Or maybe I just find attempting angel hair causes the release of too many four-letter words. That level of delicacy often has me swearing like a sailor.I scooped up some duck eggs at a recent Formaggio Kitchen trip. Duck. A f
“Check out that view,” I thought. (Sarcasm dialed up.) I was in an IKEA-inspired one-bedroom apartment with a dorm vibe—minus the Budweiser and breezy Bob Marley—and was overlooking the homeless shelter across the street. Next door was a porn shop. Florescent lighting cast a sad, stroboscopic glow over the kitchen, which had all the charm of a motor inn kitchenette.&nb
You might say I’ve been a bad Italian. Though my last name hovers in ethnic ambiguity, my roots are green, white, and red. Fresh off the boat, our original surname, Gelsomino, had its “o” cavalierly sliced off, like you would the butt end of a sopressata. Growing up, my grandmother would buy boxes of tomatoes, which we’d can in her house. In August. As it a
I thought about whether to post this week. Technically, it’s A Plum’s third anniversary, though I haven’t felt like strapping on a party hat. Mostly because of the recent events this week in Boston. And also because I just don’t know what to do with Year Three of blogging. I’ve since had some time to let the week settle in, to let it breathe, and decided that now
I am two weeks away from being done with this semester. Which means my summer officially starts April 25th. Break out the bourbon sours. I may still need my winter coat and I probably have at least one upturned umbrella in my future between now and Memorial Day. But still.It’s odd to think of April in Boston as the beginning of a four month vacation, especially since I
Very scary things have been said about polenta. It’s pasty. It needs to be fussed over or it’s all lumps and bumps. It burns if you so much as glance at it wrong. But here is the secret. It has to be stirred. And this can’t be hurried. That’s it.It knows what it needs. And what it needs is an hour to be ready. So do not ru
I organized an East versus West Coast IPA tasting on Saturday night. You can see the setup here. Please note, the seemly Real Simple-esque picture does not show you the destruction that follows when four people consume 160 ounces of high-octane brew in a single-blind tasting.We tasted.Peak Organic Brewing Company’s IPA, Portland, ME (7.1% ABV)Somerville Brewing Company’s Slumbrew
This week has felt like a week of Mondays, strung together. I interviewed a worker on Misty Brook Farm on Sunday. (Who was charming.) And the co-owner of The Wine Bottega on Tuesday. (Also incredibly charming.) Did a ton of writing. (Please note: I am now out of charming adjectives.) Worked all week, like a regular human. And cursed at the wind
Know how they say to keep your friends close and your enemies closer? I say you should keep your friends close and your friends that know how to make the most-insane-chocolate-chip-cookies-you-have-ever-had-and-you-don’t-even-usually-love-chocolate-chip-cookieseven closer. These cookies! They are studded with bits of a Taza dark chocolate bar and have a slight butt
I had an accidental five-star day last Monday. The kind of day that can only happen when you don’t plan a thing. The kind that deepens laugh lines. The kind that often occurs on a weekday afternoon for no good reason.It started out with pho soup in Chinatown. Then Dave and I bowled a few rounds and drank enough Sam Adams drafts to get a little giggly. (To be clea
Wish I was an English muffin‘Bout to make the most out of a toaster.I’d ease myself down,Comin' up brown.I prefer boysenberry more than any ordinary jam.I’m a “citizens for boysenberry jam” fan.-“Punky’s Dilemma,” Simon and GarfunkelLast winter, I covered one of the walls of my kitchen with chalkboard paint. The first thing I wrote was "I'm a 'citizens for boysenberry jam' fan." A
There are a lot of beautiful things out there. And I am going to list some of my favorites now.This Selby.This pink wine. These scribbles. This magazine. This diary in the garden and the kitchen.This manifesto.This wine cave.This garagiste.This coffee shop. This bar in Paris. This offbeat illustrator.This movie about “a drunkard.”These coo
The last thing you are probably pining for this very moment is a warm plate of ... tofu. But seeing these narrow bodies neatly lined up in rows made sharing this recipe hard to resist. Save a pig. Eat a soybean. The slogan still needs work. Luckily, the tofu does not.This idea is inspired by the ever-enchanting site, 101 Coo
This recipe is old. It existed before many other things in my life came to be. It existed before my parents divorce. Before I learned that a breakup can make your heart physically hurt. Before I knew that I had inherited my father’s heartburn and my mother’s propensity for drinking red wine. Before I would come to love a man who could shave with a straight razor a
In a world where so many lent books are forever lost between the pages of life, mixed in with the gently worn moving boxes, half-dead houseplants, and mismatched socks, it’s amazing when a book comes back to you. But this is how I came to be acquainted with Au Pied de Cochon: The Album. My boyfriend lent it to a fellow cook a few years ago. And it recently, miraculously,
What you see before you is a plate of pancakes. A plate of oatmeal pancakes. A plate of blueberry oatmeal pancakes. A plate of blueberry and Meyer lemon oatmeal pancakes.Wait. Before you click away, casting these pancakes off as a chichi breakfast, you should know that they are incredibly simple to make. A new favorite. Not that anything could fully replace these
I made these eggs this morning. Actually, it was closer to noon. But this is what happens when you begin to celebrate a Friday night with a glass of sherry here and end up here, right before they flip on the bright lights and start herding glassy-eyed customers out. I was in no hurry to move this morning. So I settled in for a lazy Saturday. And decided to make eggs th
On a Saturday in early December I met up with friends for some holiday baking. Each person brought a few recipes. In addition, my friend Theresa brought a few bottles of prosecco. Nothing says Christmas like booze in the kitchen.She also came with a pistachio cookie recipe and with the hope that it tasted like the kind she had at Modern Pastry, in Boston. (It didn’t.&n
I know I hinted at the promise of Earl’s cake last week. Spoiler alert: it’s coming. But I wanted to get all my cyberspace mis en place together. Which means I first need to talk candied citrus peels.These peels came to me by way of Martha Stewart. I am like Martha Stewart in the same way that I imagine making bûche de noël is like opening up a box of Little Debbi
I am not going to sugarcoat what happened here. I had a lot of issues. The recipe I found advised to cook the citron cubes at a light simmer for roughly thirty minutes until they turned translucent. After well over an hour, opaque citrus bits were still bobbing in the pan. No lucidity to be had. I also knifed my way quite blindly through a Buddha’s hand citron. Wit
It’s December. The gingerbread lattes are out. The Christmas songs are here having been playing since Veterans Day. I don’t really need to convince you that it’s time to eat a cake made of ginger, now do I? But, if you insist, how about this: this cake is fit for breakfast. In fact, it excels at it.It’s really a cross between a bread and a cake.&nb
Three little letters. P-I-E. But they can strike fear. There is the prospect of shrinking crusts (!), tough pastry (!), and gummy dough (!) for one. Add a pinch of “meeting the boyfriend’s family for the first time” and you have yourself a down-home recipe for a thanksgiving disaster. That is, if you don’t have the right recipe. And if the f
Wait. Did I just give you a Brussels sprouts recipe last week? Yes, yes I did. And I have since singlehandedly taken down two additional pounds of sprouts in two days. I don't blame you if you want to turn back now. But I saw this other Brussels sprouts recipe and I had to go for it. I am a glutton for Brassica. So I am doubling down here.I should
This salad may not look like much. It’s in an old, recycled jar, for one. Plus, the texture of the picture is a little grainy. You can barely see the dried cranberry in the lower right corner poking its little slivered head out from beneath a cap of Brussels sprouts. But it’s a doozy. And when i
I have these friends. I call them “danger friends.” But not in a bad way. Mostly. What I mean to say is that they are not the “vanilla” kind. They are the kind that you curse at 7 am when you wake smelling of bourbon and regret. They are the kind with last names like “Maloney,” “Santangelo,” and “Samson.” The kind that will bail you out
The last time I wrote about caramel I talked about “letting go.” And right now I feel like I’m riding a bucking bronco. Life. Is an animal. And I’m just trying to saddle up, and hang on. Which has me thinking about how difficult it can be to manage "it all." To be a good daughter. Good girlfriend. Good student. Good sister. Good employee.&n
I have been feeling less than fabulous of late. Sleep deprivation will do that to a person. As will seeing chronic holes in your mismatched socks and big circles under your eyes. And making sweatpants your [fashion] statement of choice past 7 PM. And subsisting on cabbage and beans. (And pizza, lots of pizza, pizza for days.)And just when you thought things couldn
Pasta. Pork. Pears. All things that take handsomely to leftover red wine. The pasta can get boiled in it. (Sprinkle garnet-colored spaghetti with some pecorino and you’ll have lunch.) The pork shoulder can get braised in it. (I know you people and I don’t have to mention uses for pork shoulder.) But one of my favorite ways to dispose of red wine
To those who tell you you're at your prime in your twenties,You liars. Here is what will happen in your twenties.You will wonder what you were thinking with that gold sequined tube top.You will get mono from playing beer pong at a frat house. You will wish you never told your mother that you once ate a live goldfish for a can of Natural Light.You will regret those pink suede pants.
My younger brother just turned twenty-two. What do you give a strapping Italian male who acts like he’s eighty and desperately tries to subvert his birthday each year? Why, you give him biscotti. Well, first you stalk him until he gives you his new address. You say that he’s only making it harder on himself. That he’s prolonging the inevitable. That he migh
Bluefish. Donut peaches wrapped in prosciutto, glazed in maple, and grilled. Butter lettuce with buttermilk basil dressing. Heady Toppers from Vermont.Homemade hot dogs in buttered, pan-toasted brioche buns. A bottle of my favorite rosé, ZeC Vin de France from Château Tour Grise with “House of the Rising Sun” in the background.Steamed pork and cabbage dumplings. Spicy b
Yes, I’m speaking to you, Habanero enthusiast. Friend of the Serrano. Lover of the Scotch Bonnet. You who believe that a little heartburn can make a person feel alive. You who used to search out fireballs as a small child and who can now name all the bars in the city where hot and dirty gin martinis are consumed. You who enjoy Modelo Especials with Tabasco, salt,
These tomatoes are studs. Let’s not mince words about it. They are tomatoes about town. They’re bowtied with thyme and lemon verbena, appropriately liquored up with a little vermouth. And they come to you with loose dinner plate morals, hardly capable of sticking to one dish. They were spread on charcoal-grilled flatbread. They were smashed on a rose
It all comes down to this. There are some very, very strong opinions on the matter of Muffin v. Cupcake. Nigel Slater alludes to this in his recipe for spelt and blueberry “muffins” in Ripe. Note the quotes. He first creams the butter and sugar together: giving his muffin batter the cake treatment. He says:Muff
We’re all friends here, right? So I can share that I’ve already drunk three of these suckers. And the only thing stopping me from having another is that I’m out of mixer. Specifically, I’m out of what was introduced to me as “lemon sherbet,” also known as a proper oleo saccharum. The sherbet is a key component to classic punch recipes according to liqu
There is no socially acceptable way to eat an August peach. Especially in an office setting. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried one-handed with a paper towel cupped under the fruit. I’ve tried hovering in the corner, hunched over my miniature garbage can like Quasimodo. I’ve tried the three-bite approach. (Definitely not recommended unless someone is
Ah, August. You know August, the month of Sundays. The month of last gulps of rosé and drippy kitchen sink peaches. Pretty soon I’ll be replacing words like “tequila happy hour” with words like “trajectory.” Instead of saying, “Dude, pass me the salt and a lime,” I’ll be saying, “Please pass me that book. I have to read 200 pages on re
Behold, a list of things I am suspicious of: Raw garlic. Men in fedoras. Colonics. Bartenders who make negronis in martini glasses. (Please note: they should be served on the rocks. In an old-fashioned glass. With an orange slice. Like you were making them for your eighty-seven year-old grandfather.) B-complex vitamins. People who claim to dislike cake. And, mos
It’s just too hot to think right now. My brain might be melting. Or at least this is the excuse I am going to use for whatever is preventing me from typing something—anything—that doesn’t induce a yawn. I also see chilly drinks in my immediate future. And I’d rather be drinking, say, a Pimm’s Cup than slowly becoming a puddle of self-loathing.So here is a short list of the potent
If I could rewind, I would not have inquiringly flipped the latch on my springform pan causing the liquid contents to ooze slowly, unstoppably out. Slow as molasses, equally as messy, and just as painful to watch. If you are one of those people who chirps about reframing things, you might call this a teachable moment. I am not that together most of the time. In fact, sometim
The best way to describe this ice cream is to say it tastes like dark clouds and thunderbolts. Perhaps this is because I made it during a raging thunderstorm. The kind that sparks bright white shards from thick, black clouds and seems intent on shattering up the sky. The kind that swirls thickly around, gaining momentum from hot summer nights. The kind that pairs perfectly w
I came back from France up a solid kilo, newly equip with a little more padding around my middle region and a liver that just wouldn’t quit. Nice and all, but I felt in need of a detox. When I throw around a term like “detox” what I really mean is that I try to avoid drinking for a solid six days, try to eat more plants, and try not to sneak cookies at lunch. Some of you may know
It’s about two pm as I write this. Which means it’s nearly eight in France. I still haven’t quite acclimated to being back home. Around this time in Paris my mother and I would start our nightly ritual. We’d head out for dinner. We’d be tired. This would be an early night, we’d say. And then we’d find ourselves trudging home around midnight. Sometime
I’ve been really overdoing it lately. Carrying on as though there is an award for self-exhaustion. And it needs to stop. I need an intervention. I imagine it would go something like this: You need to start getting more than five hours of sleep … ice cream is not an acceptable breakfast option … nope, not for dinner either … put down the cake … I mean it … have you
I’ve finally succumbed to Twitter. There. I said it. Phew. #thatfeltgood. I’m pretty sure the constant stimulation isn’t spectacular for my anxiety. But I’m now one twitchy, instantly updated food enthusiast. I’m not entirely sure how successful my Twitter career will be given my struggle to sacrifice correct grammar and substitute x’s where ‘anks’s and ‘icken’s truly belon
I’ve had a very hard time trying to put this cake into words. So I’m just going to introduce it to you bare bones. ***** and Jane-style. Ready. Set. Go.Girl sees pistachio cake. Girl orders carrot soup. Girl takes a bite of boy’s cake he has ordered. Girl does this sort of thing from time to time. Girl recognizes this behavior is probably annoying. Never mind. Girl tastes p
I’ve thought quite a bit about what I might call this. Avocella (like Nutella, but with avocado). Cocoa avocado crema (Alice Waters style). Or perhaps avocat et chocolat (poorly translated French). All of this in an attempt to convince you that I have not lost it. I am normally not one for messing with dessert. Particularly when there is chocolate involved. But I am al
I am not currently wearing raw linen. Or hemp underwear. I have not started making my own soap. Nor do I have plans to unite a ragtag gang of loners to start a banjo band. This much I can assure you. But things have definitely gone a bit "granola" in my apartment. I’ve been hooked on homemade pita. I have no fewer than five jars of assor
First, the good news: this is the best damned frozen yogurt I have ever had. Disclaimer: I usually prefer ice cream. With its full-fat preserved. I like it hard-packed and thick. I am not someone that swoons over frozen yogurt. And I am certainly not someone who refers to it as froyo. I don’t tend to curse about it, either. These are the
I intended to come here and talk about baked falafel. I really did. But then I made this cake (for the fourthtime). Falafel. Cake. Falafel. Cake. Cake will win out on most days. And today is no exception. It’s a great falafel recipe and technically you do employ your oven, but let’s get things straight: it’s not cake. So the cake takes it. Not that I think th
