Welcome back Chitlins! I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and have had sufficient time to crawl out of your food coma to attend this lovely Monday morning at the office. Since I’m sure all your refrigerators are bursting to full with a million Tupperware containers of leftovers from Thursday I thought I’d help you out with that.
Thursday night, two weeks ago, was truly a comedy of errors. Except I didn’t see the comedy in the whole thing. I have never stepped so gingerly around a kitchen in my entire life, not that I can recall anyway. I had finally set aside time to make that pumpkin pie I was promising The BF all week and I figured I’d also make a quick batch of something else sweet while I waited for the pie dough to chill.
I got home and scrolled through my bookmarks, but didn’t find anything that interested me so I decided to load up Pinterest to find one of the 200+ sweets recipes I had pinned. Except the internets wouldn’t load. So I troubleshot for a bit and finally got it working, picked out a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe and marched off to the grocery store; when it promptly started pouring, and I forgot my umbrella. No bigs, I waited out the flash storm and made it home not much later and only a bit soggy.
I may be new to the food blogging community, but when I saw this post splattered over several of the blogs I read, and after several tears shed on my part, I decided I had to post.
A fellow blogger’s husband died unexpectedly last week, and as a tribute to him she requested that her fellow bloggers and foodie-community bake his favorite pie in his memory. Her original post is here. I may not have known Jennie, nor followed her blog until today, but as soon as I saw the title of her post it struck a chord in me. Perhaps some of you will know why. Either way, I will be making a pie for Mikey this weekend and sharing it with those I love.
You don’t have to make the pie yourself, but perhaps sharing something with those you love this weekend, and always I guess, is a good idea. Life can be short and unexpected.
My mother has this Christmas cactus that has been in my parent’s house since the dawn of time. At least for as long as I can remember, anyway. And all while I was growing up I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why it was called a “Christmas cactus” specifically. I reasoned that it had something to do with the colors, the cactus tentacles are a deep green and the flowers are a nice burgundy red. But here’s the reason I had trouble figuring it out: Christmas cacti are supposed to bloom in the winter. But my mother’s poor cactus is hopelessly out of season. It blooms in the spring, or mid-summer. My years of confusion were justified: my mother’s cactus has an identity crisis.
I’m sort of like that cactus. Especially when it comes to baking. I bristle under seasonal baking. Not because I don’t like the fresher ingredients, I do. But for whatever reason it’s always in the dead of summer that I yearn for potpie, or in the throes of a particularly cold winter that I want the most complicated bread that needs super extra rising time in temperatures approaching the climate of a tropical rainforest. Funny story, I know. What makes it even funnier though? Like most apartments in New York I don’t have an air-conditioned kitchen, and while there is this thing by the window that I think is supposed to be a heater, I’ll be damned if it produces any heat. So you can be sure that in the dead of summer my apartment is about 15 degrees warmer than it is outside (despite the arsenal of fans I have set up to produce a dizzying number of cross breezes); and in the winter it’s a solid two degrees above freezing. Really complicates my out of season baking habit. Doesn’t stop it, though. Continue reading