Whatever we’re up to, it probably won’t work.
“Wouldn’t you know it,” my wife says.
We pull up to a red light a mile from our house. It’s 7:00 a.m. Stopped in front of us is a pest control truck. On the back of it, facing us, is the company name, telephone number, and an all-star list of domestic pests that, if you don’t watch it, can get out of control. Wasps, ants, termites, bats, raccoons, ground hogs, mice; each pictured with a larger-than-life-size photo for the reading impaired or animal challenged, or both, on the back of the truck. Continue reading
Big thanks to all who came out for my book launch. It was a terrific evening. Here’s proof:
It’s the pot’s fault.
The Italians call it a tegame di coccio or a pentola di terracotta. What cooks in it–a stew, a sauce, a roast– is, well, bliss. During the long cook, fragrance permeates your house. Of rabbit ala cacciatore. Of polpettone. Of lamb shoulder. You smell the meat, but also there is the unmistakable fragrance of hot terracotta. You smell the pot. It smells so good. Why I don’t know. It just does. Continue reading
Life is short. Don’t forget to gelato.
A reading/slide show of an earlier blogpost.
The sausage is more than rehabilitated.
Since the dawn of time, man-woman-cook has pondered this question: What to do with leftover sausage?
Just the other day I grilled more sausage (plain Italian, no fennel) than we could eat. In the hours after lunch the leftover meat came to room temperature. Along the sheath of sausage casing the fat congealed, rendering the links slippery and mildly unpleasant. Occasionally inclined to gluttony, I occasionally dropped by the kitchen counter and took a bite of cold sausage. On its own, there is nothing very appealing about it. Even reheated there is nothing very appealing about cold, leftover sausage, on its own.
How to rehabilitate leftover sausage? eat them twice? Continue reading
Short people of the world, unite!
My wife and I are having breakfast one morning at a local restaurant. In this establishment, you stand in line and place your order at the cash register. You take a number, find a table, and wait for your food. We’re here early. The restaurant is full of men. It’s the power breakfast hour.
While we wait for our food we watch more men come in, many of them dressed in summer business casual. A couple tables over, two guys with a laptop talk in hushed tones. At the table next to us a guy leans over a legal pad, checking his notes. He’s wearing a black and white gingham shirt, jeans, and running shoes. He’s got serious, shiny, freshly-combed-back Gordon Gecko hair. In a couple minutes he’s joined by another guy in jeans. Their meeting begins. Continue reading
Podcast (play or download)
A reading/slideshow of an essay in my new book, American English, Italian Chocolate.