We’re having pizza for lunch at our daughter’s house. She says she’s going to do it on the grill.
Not what I expected.
My wife and I often buy a pizza dough at the Italian market when we go for goodies. We have one in the freezer right now. Thaw it, roll it, mark it with a P. Then put it in the oven, heated to 500F. Our preference is a white-pizza-foccaccia, with olive oil and sea salt and rosemary. Good for sandwiches layered with aforementioned goodies.Continue reading “Alt Pizza”
In the spring of 1973 I hiked the Appalachian Trail. A short segment of it, that is.
Okay, I barely touched the doorstep.
What started out with great ambition devolved into misadventure.Continue reading “Less Than One”
In the kitchen I originate very little. Modify, yes; originate, no.
I’m okay with that.
I was gratified recently when I watched “Funke,” a documentary film about Evan Funke, the American chef whose LA restaurant Felix attempts to serve the best pasta in the United States. Not just good pasta. The best. (Felix menu shown above.) What struck me were Funke’s remarks early in the film about the casalinghe tradition in Italy.Continue reading “Eat Up”
“Go ahead and toss a few,” he said.
I told him I was no pitcher.
We were on the local elementary school ball diamond. It was a Saturday, a few days before little league’s opening day. Fifteen boys, some eager, some not; two dads, one competent, one not.Continue reading “Gatherer, Not Hunter”
And the winner is: 2017 La Focaie, Maremma Toscana.
Every summer I look for a budget red or white, the wine I’m going to open at home, enjoy while cooking lunch and with chocolate after lunch. A couple summers ago it was Cecchi, an Italian red. Last summer it was budget California chardonnay from Costco. These are not wines I take to someone’s house. Neither are they jug wines. These are everyday house wines that consistently satisfy, until I can’t get them anymore, or until they no longer satisfy consistently. Nothing lasts forever.Continue reading “Drink Up”
One Sunday afternoon in March of 1976, I ran into Dave. I was in a beer store in Durham, North Carolina, standing at the cash register, pocketing the change from my purchase, when this guy stepped up to the counter beside me. He looked familiar.
“Are you Dave?” I said.
He gave me a wary look, like maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t.
“Dave from Ireland?”
His face lit up. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m Dave from Ireland. Hey!”Continue reading “What Are the Odds?”