I haven't abandoned this. Worry not, kind friends (er--mostly family).
I just got back from a weekend in New York. Not just any social romp mind you, but for the specific purpose of witnessing the marriage of one of my most adored cousins, Nick. I did myself the service of arriving one day early so I could get a little friend time. And as per usual my heart was lighter after seeing the shiny faces of my friendlies.
I've written about the Chelsea Market before. And sure enough, while staying in Chelsea there was no way I wasn't going to pay it a visit. In good form Sage let us cook at her place and I had the distinct privilege of my brother in tow so I got excited and decided I'd cook. It's been a while since I've cooked. I don't really do it ever in Seattle and what I do for work mostly involves assembly as all of our ingredients are RTU (industry speak for Ready To Use). So there we are, in Chelsea, on a sort of beautiful day. It was actually blustery with scattered showers but I was pleased as punch to be there and to be hanging out with my brother. Thus the revisionist historian will take over and we'll just say it was a balmy 73, not a cloud in the sky and a warm breeze was softly playing tag with us. My brother suggested we make fresh pasta for dinner which naturally lead me to fast track it to the specialty Italian store...whose name I really ought to know but don't.
After lengthy stops in both Italy (can I just call it that and you can you not judge me, please?) and the Produce Exchange, conveniently located close to one another in the great fish tank of Chelsea Market, we headed home with our bounty: fresh basil, pinenuts, garlic, a wedge of Parmesan, chili pepper flakes, spinach, strawberries, feta, onions, Italian peeled tomatoes, capers, kalamata olives, anchovy fillets, fresh pasta.
Dinner was--if you haven't solved the puzzle on your own:
Salad. Spinach, sliced strawberries, diced red onions, and crumbled feta lightly dressed with an orange marmalade balsamic vinaigrette.
Fresh Pasta with two sauces.
Pesto. Traditional with basil, pinenuts, olive oil, Parmesan cheese, a splash of balsamic -- you raise your eyebrows but acid is KEY to all great things, I'm telling you.
One Sicilian number. Owing its flavor to anchovies, capers, kalamata olives, tomatoes, garlic, chili pepper flakes, and yes a splash of balsamic.
I have been reading Heat by Bill Buford. The retelling of his time spent as "kitchen bitch" to Mario Batali owner of Babbo and Po among other known establishments. Not to mention a regular on Iron Chef America and the host of the once regularly programmed Molto Mario on the Food Network. Heat was a gift from a former attorney co-worker, quite a thoughtful one at that, as I ventured away from law to pursue what has become this odd little preoccupation with food . It took me almost four months to pick it up but it really couldn't be more timely as I am presently struggling with my own feelings of wanting to narrow my food learning while feeling simultaneously stupid and over qualified in competing moments with the job. Anyway, there are many little lessons peppered throughout Buford's tale, not the least of which is Mario's belief that fresh pasta is the main attraction and sauce the side-car (grossly simplified lesson-- read the book yourself.)
In no uncertain terms, dinner was a success. I tend not to give people enough credit for their eating habits, perhaps in large part because Starbucks' food customers are such an uninspired bunch, but it was great to be cooking for friends who were compelled to get down with my experimental anchovy sauce. And there weren't a lot of leftovers which always makes a cook happy.
Just to give credit to the meal I didn't create: dessert were cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery. For how famous that place is I only have one word: Overrated. And to be more specific: get a new frosting recipe and a little extra moisture in your cake wouldn't hurt either.
Anyway, I slept cozy on a nest of four ottomans and woke up Saturday to an interesting discovery: the bottom left quadrant of my lip was swollen and about the size of my thumb. My first reaction was that I'd been bitten in the face by an invisible rodent. But there was no pain anywhere. It was just fat. This was shocking for many reasons. 1) I am not allergic to anything, I have a sensitivity to sulfites and mild lactose intolerance-- otherwise, I've really got nothing. I can snort grass, dust mites, pollen, and peanuts and none would be the wiser yet here I was with a fat lip and nothing identifiably as the cause. So what did I do? I went and woke up my friend Vicki, asleep in the next room, who is a recent finisher of her first year at UCSF medical. Vicki determined it was an allergic reaction (juxtapose this to my brother's response "what invisible person hit you in the face?") advised me to ice and take a Benedryl. In my head all I've got is, "perfect, fly in for the family wedding, look like I spent the morning having a root canal." But blessed be those educated in medicine, two and a half hours later, during a fantastic brunch at Good my fat lip was normal size.
So I'm playing this all back in my head. What was the ingredient that I used in my own cooking that gave me a fat lip?...am I going to develop late onset food allergies?...is this the beginning of an ironic end to my food loving career?...will it come back at an even less convenient time? (What would be a less convenient time? Perhaps while I'm giving an important speech about how allergies really are just a sign of weakness and completely psychosomatic.)
I'll still be inclined to eat all those things with gusto, particularly that anchovy sauce, man that was some tasty business. But I will keep one eye on my own lips to see if the swelling returns.
