food

So, holy crap, life change. I'm working on transitioning successfully to working out of my house, thanks to New Job. I've got a few things down, thanks to other friends who have been in similar positions: have a set schedule, wake up and treat it like you're Going To Work, actually remember to eat, and remember to

sign the hell off when you're done for the day, and don't work all evening.

My treat for myself, now that Jeff is home and I am home all the time: I had a freezer delivered today. It's humming away happily in the garage, bored as hell and hoping I'll feed it.

I've got some thoughts about things I've always wished I could keep more of, but never did because Tiny Fridge Freezer Is Full Of Fail:

I'm a bit more careful about broadcasting my location these days, but now that I'm — uh, back in Alabama? — I'll say that I had a good time in Minnesota. I should post some pictures, shouldn't I? First up, though, a gentle bit of listening pleasure for your Friday. Guster still sounds like Guster, but the images in this video are the real winner.

Thanks, esmerel! She taunts me from California with cupcakes I can't have unless i make one of these recipes: Smitten Kitchen's "chocolate whiskey and beer cupcakes" or "Chocolate Guinness Stout Cupcakes with Chocolate Ganache and Bailey's Buttercream Swirl"

What's sad is that my brain doesn't know if it wants a beer or a cupcake.

Saturday lunch is a long-standing favorite of ours. It’s a chance for Jeff and me to talk without the artificial constraint of a lunch hour, or the tiredness that comes after a work day. Most are unmemorable quick outings; today’s will stick in my mind for a while, but not in a good way.

Our last experience at Spice of India was a little odd at times, but the dinner showed some promise. Enough to give it a second try, anyway. Everything I’ve heard and read indicated that it was better visited at lunch.  That’s what we did this time, except this time it was on a Saturday. Thirty minutes after opening we were the first customers in the door; the satellite broadcast of a Bombay radio station was switched on as we walked in the door.

How I managed to forget to document this recipe last year, I do not know, but I did.

This is the bread dip of great evil I break out only once a year: PHE*.  When you read over the ingredients, you’ll understand why; our arteries really can’t cope with having this dip with any greater frequency.

Ingredients

• 1 head garlic, roasted. (At least ten cloves. You want more than that. Be bold.)
• 1 pound unsalted butter
• 1 pint heavy cream
• 1 can (about 6 fillets) anchovies
• salt, if desired
• white pepper, if desired

Directions

Roast the garlic. (We assume you know how to do that.) Mash the peeled garlic cloves together with the anchovies into a smooth paste. Melt the butter into the cream.  Add the anchovy-garlic mixture. Simmer on low until flavors meld.

Anthony Bourdain rails against the current crop of TV chefs and names names:

We KNOW she can’t cook. She shrewdly tells us so. So…what is she selling us? Really? She’s selling us satisfaction, the smug reassurance that mediocrity is quite enough. She’s a friendly, familiar face who appears regularly on our screens to tell us that “Even your dumb, lazy ass can cook this!” Wallowing in your own crapulence on your Cheeto-littered couch you watch her and think, “Hell…I could do that. I ain’t gonna…but I could—if I wanted! Now where’s my damn jug a Diet Pepsi?”

Via Jody, of course.