My sister is like the poor woman's Martha Stewart, except that every time you set a holiday table with unpressed linens, Martha pays a coolie to kill a Chow Chow.
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Alternate Title: I'll dutch your baby anytime, hot stuff.*
*Because a dutch baby is a kind of big, fluffy baked pancake often filled with apples. Not because I'm trying to come on to you. Although if I knew you, I'm sure I TOTALLY would.
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What a relief it is, mothafuckas.
So I mosey into Pathmark the other night looking for bargain basement, just-about-to-turn plums to make some sorbet, bag up a couple pounds of soft, deep crimson beauties and bring 'em home only to discover that they're not plums and I should pay more attention to labels. They're pluots, a plum-apricot hybrid. Frig. I really wanted plums.
I bite into one to get a sense of the flavor, and I gotta tell you: pluots are a SHAM. I know a plum when I taste a damn plum, and these? Are freaking plums. But I can't be ...
Tiny martini glasses: cute presentation, or painfully twee?*
A few weeks ago, The Kitchn highlighted an old Bon Appetit recipe for wine-marinated grapes. Because while fruit is tasty on its own, it is almost always improved by being soaked in booze.
I was immediately drawn to this recipe - if you can call it that, it's so simple I don't know if it rises to the level of "recipe" - because frozen grapes have always been one of my favorite summer snacks. And if I love frozen grapes, and soaking grapes in booze will make them better, then Newton's 5th ...
Passionfruit, to be specific. But dead people don't eat ice cream, so it just means more for me.
I just wrote a whole post about this ice cream and my dad. It was really good, filled with humor, pathos, and brilliant photography.
And then Wordpress ate it.
Father's Day is rough enough as it is and I can't bring myself to sit here and re-write it, but I don't want to deprive anyone of delicious, delicious ice cream. So recipe after the jump, and my apologies for the lack of real post.
ETA: Okay, okay, here's a tidbit. So ...
Save the fork - there's pie!
I've been seeing pictures of this strawberry pie from the most recent issue of Gourmet all over the place lately, and it calls to me like a siren. The deep ruby filling. The plump berries. The crisp crust. The billowy whipped cream.
PIE.
I finally got around to giving it a go last night, albeit with some alterations. The whole process was quick, easy and painless, leaving me with very little fodder for a post other than pretty pictures of strawberries, not that there's anything wrong with that. Thus, in the ...
I don't actually speak Spanish. Perhaps you've noticed.
Still very tired.
Can I write an entire post
using haiku? Sí.
Behold the raw pork:
Juicy, pink, fatty goodness.
Oh, salmonella trichinosis.
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When I'm good, I'm good.
Long before I became fully immured in the foodblogosphere, I was addicted to the archives of Sugar High Friday over at The Domestic Goddess - we're talking over 3 years worth of sugary, buttery, sticky smooth sweet silky goodness from around the world. Have an excess of figs? Check out #35. Love ginger? Try lucky #19. Wanna get fancy-pants about it? Sugar art, #26. Feeling po-mo? "Desserts in shades of white," #31.* Dead dentists everywhere are creating elaborate underground tunnels from all the rolling ...
Hey you...you like-a the berries? Come closer, I give you a berry.
I was not in Whole Foods today to buy strawberries, I was there to buy a pork product for this Thursday. No, I will not specify beyond that; I've already said too much and will now have to reach through the internet and kill you. But as I was walking through the produce section, the berries launched a full-on nasal assault with their sweet fragrance to which I succumbed instantly. Because strawberries are the shit.
I knew immediately that I wanted to make a quick but grown-up strawberry shortcake: black-pepper ...
Yes, I ate a baby chicken and no, I'm not sorry.
Dinner tonight comes thanks to douche-baggy pretty boy Tyler Florence's Eat This Book: honey and soy glazed poussin with curried green apples.
I should state for the record that I have no real reason to believe that Tyler Florence is a douchebag. It's just a feeling I have, but I'm pretty sure he's That Guy. For example, this recipe comes from a section of the book called "devouring," which contains a collection of recipes with no discernible theme, other than the fact that they're ...