Quote of the week: I hope there will be cookies everywhere, always. God bless the goodies, the naughties, lo, even the nasties, and giggliness following having done perhaps what we best had not. We are only human. God love us. ~ Jennifer of the blog Jersey Pie
Check, Please!
Well, readers, as may be expected this week was not quite as whacky as last. One supposes life can’t be random and a little nuts all the time. However, this week was a one of great and important digestion and not just in the gastronomic sense. The last seven days have been a journey of stomach, mind and, yes, heart as well.
The journey began Monday evening though physically I didn’t go anywhere except up and down the stairs in my apartment building and back and forth to the laundry mat. Dinner was a homemade split pea soup from the night before. I didn’t have enough split peas for the recipe, so I added a handful of kamut, a hearty grain with origins in Egypt.
I discovered kamut back in the days when I was restricted to eating only whole grains. I would cook it, mix it with teff, add bananas and peanut butter and eat it for breakfast. It’s quite tasty but takes eons to cook. I encourage you to try it some time regardless. It has a wonderful texture.
With the soup, I drank three glasses of red wine. I then had a terrible urge to call Lost Artist. Instead, I crawled into bed and pretended to sleep.
Tuesday after work, I arrived at my yoga studio for a hatha I/II class. The receptionist told me my class was cancelled, but asked whether I’d like to take the level II/III class. I considered briefly that I might break in half being so out of shape, but agreed. All the twisting, lunging, dipping and arching made me very hungry.
I called V., and we wandered over to Cafe Orlin on 8th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenues. I needed some serious comfort food and ordered a roasted vegetable and goat cheese sandwich on homemade pita bread with french fries and sides of mustard and their wonderful harissa hot sauce. A red Portuguese wine was a great compliment.
While the food filled my gut and the wine soothed my mind, my heart was still a bit messy. Being the scientist that she is V. employed logic to talk me off the cellular ledge. By the time I reached the subway station, my head was back in the driver’s seat. My angry heart was pouting in the back, but subdued.
As I ate lunch at my desk on Wednesday, I read an e-mail from my fun artist friend A. who sent me a list of all the “great things” I should focus on in “these trying times.” The list included my recent accomplishments and brandy Manhattan’s. I crossed out brandy, replaced it with whiskey and posted it on my wall. She also suggested I ditch the anger. I pondered this while munching on white cheddar Pirate’s Booty, one of my favorite chip-like treats.
Wednesday evening I was invited by a former co-worker to join a gathering of folks in health care communications at a beautiful global music spot on Avenue A and 6th Street called drom. We sat on a sofa, chairs and stools around a long, low table and snacked on dolmas (stuffed grape leaves), a variety of cheeses, phyllo rolls, pizza marguerite, olives and chicken wings. The dolmas were exceptional, and the cheeses were very well selected. The phyllo rolls and the pizza were quite satisfying as well.
After two nights of wine, I decided to mix it up with a martini--Ketel One with olives and a splash of juice. The glass and the martini were both giant, and with terrible error in judgment, I ordered a second. The rate of drinking outpaced that of snacking, and I was quite plastered when I left. Yes, that’s right. It only takes two martinis, which is why, although I am a lush, I will probably never be an alcoholic. I can’t tolerate enough liquor.
The next morning I was, of course, paying for the excess. I surfaced from the subway on 5th Avenue and 23rd Street with a throbbing head and queasy stomach. Despite, or perhaps as a result of my physical discomfort, something very strange occurred during the block-and-a-half walk to my office building. I simply decided to let go of being angry at LA and to also forgive myself for whatever it is I think I did wrong.
V. was right. A. was right. And in my miserable hung-over state I realized it’s too exhausting and time consuming to be angry and hurt. I marveled at the revelation. I was over it. Done. Could it be true?
Friday evening, I decided to launch my second reclamation mission: Lower East Side. For several months last year, LA and I would walk up from Grand Street near East Broadway following a weekly salsa dance class and choose new places to eat and drink. One night we landed at Nurse Bettie, a fabulous little bar on Norfolk Street near Rivington.
I had plans to indulge in Restaurant Week with my friend Mrs. O, but when we were unable to obtain a reservation, I sent her a link to the Nurse Bettie’s web site knowing she would love the feel, the decor and the vibe.
I arrived a few minutes early and discovered they no longer have a specialty drinks menu. The very cute bartender offered to make me something from the previous menu, but I decided to try a new bourbon.
One of my brothers, who is a bit of a bourbon connoisseur, recently sent me a list of bourbons to try, including Elmer T. Lee, Woodford Reserve, Buffalo Trace and George Stagg. Although I didn’t see those on the shelf, I had never had Knob Creek and decided to give it a go.
The very cute bartender told me Knob Creek is a serious drink. A serious drink, indeed. I am embarrassed to admit I could not finish the second. In my defense they were large pours, the whiskey is 100 proof and my stomach was empty. I was not about to repeat Wednesday night despite the epiphany that came with the hangover.
The bartender recommended Basil Hayden (which I already enjoy) and Baker’s though he prefers Jameson’s over bourbon because it’s sweeter. He is not, however, a sweets man, a fact which surfaced during a conversation about the cupcakes Mrs. O and I were enjoying from Baby Cakes, a vegan bakery on on Broome Street .
I explained to the bartender that I like the Babycake's cupcakes for just that reason. They are not sugary, just perfectly sweetened with agave syrup. He actually knew what agave syrup is and had a positive opinion about its use to sweeten beverages. I was becoming increasingly tempted to hang out and flirt, however, the thought of staying up until 5:00 a.m. when his shift ended seemed impossible. Yikes. I am getting old. Remember back in the Digital Girl days? (See Irish in the DG archives.)
In between bourbon discussions and cupcakes, I confirmed with Mrs. O what was just a thought the previous morning. “I’m over it. I just can’t waste any more time or energy going through it.” And, because I finally gave voice to the words, they were true.
So there you have it. The break-up has been digested, an unexpected side effect of comfort food, excessive drinking, cup cakes and the indispensable company of good friends.
And, now I am at Mrs. O’s having lots of fabulous food and drink while the Superbowl plays on the wall in a giant projection. I contributed homemade jalapeno poppers (thanks to Emeril and his baked jalapeno poppers recipe). We aren't that much into football but the game is a great excuse to get together and cook!
Stay tuned! The fun and food will continue!
Check, Please!
Well, readers, as may be expected this week was not quite as whacky as last. One supposes life can’t be random and a little nuts all the time. However, this week was a one of great and important digestion and not just in the gastronomic sense. The last seven days have been a journey of stomach, mind and, yes, heart as well.
The journey began Monday evening though physically I didn’t go anywhere except up and down the stairs in my apartment building and back and forth to the laundry mat. Dinner was a homemade split pea soup from the night before. I didn’t have enough split peas for the recipe, so I added a handful of kamut, a hearty grain with origins in Egypt.
I discovered kamut back in the days when I was restricted to eating only whole grains. I would cook it, mix it with teff, add bananas and peanut butter and eat it for breakfast. It’s quite tasty but takes eons to cook. I encourage you to try it some time regardless. It has a wonderful texture.
With the soup, I drank three glasses of red wine. I then had a terrible urge to call Lost Artist. Instead, I crawled into bed and pretended to sleep.
Tuesday after work, I arrived at my yoga studio for a hatha I/II class. The receptionist told me my class was cancelled, but asked whether I’d like to take the level II/III class. I considered briefly that I might break in half being so out of shape, but agreed. All the twisting, lunging, dipping and arching made me very hungry.
I called V., and we wandered over to Cafe Orlin on 8th Street between 1st and 2nd Avenues. I needed some serious comfort food and ordered a roasted vegetable and goat cheese sandwich on homemade pita bread with french fries and sides of mustard and their wonderful harissa hot sauce. A red Portuguese wine was a great compliment.
While the food filled my gut and the wine soothed my mind, my heart was still a bit messy. Being the scientist that she is V. employed logic to talk me off the cellular ledge. By the time I reached the subway station, my head was back in the driver’s seat. My angry heart was pouting in the back, but subdued.
As I ate lunch at my desk on Wednesday, I read an e-mail from my fun artist friend A. who sent me a list of all the “great things” I should focus on in “these trying times.” The list included my recent accomplishments and brandy Manhattan’s. I crossed out brandy, replaced it with whiskey and posted it on my wall. She also suggested I ditch the anger. I pondered this while munching on white cheddar Pirate’s Booty, one of my favorite chip-like treats.
Wednesday evening I was invited by a former co-worker to join a gathering of folks in health care communications at a beautiful global music spot on Avenue A and 6th Street called drom. We sat on a sofa, chairs and stools around a long, low table and snacked on dolmas (stuffed grape leaves), a variety of cheeses, phyllo rolls, pizza marguerite, olives and chicken wings. The dolmas were exceptional, and the cheeses were very well selected. The phyllo rolls and the pizza were quite satisfying as well.
After two nights of wine, I decided to mix it up with a martini--Ketel One with olives and a splash of juice. The glass and the martini were both giant, and with terrible error in judgment, I ordered a second. The rate of drinking outpaced that of snacking, and I was quite plastered when I left. Yes, that’s right. It only takes two martinis, which is why, although I am a lush, I will probably never be an alcoholic. I can’t tolerate enough liquor.
The next morning I was, of course, paying for the excess. I surfaced from the subway on 5th Avenue and 23rd Street with a throbbing head and queasy stomach. Despite, or perhaps as a result of my physical discomfort, something very strange occurred during the block-and-a-half walk to my office building. I simply decided to let go of being angry at LA and to also forgive myself for whatever it is I think I did wrong.
V. was right. A. was right. And in my miserable hung-over state I realized it’s too exhausting and time consuming to be angry and hurt. I marveled at the revelation. I was over it. Done. Could it be true?
Friday evening, I decided to launch my second reclamation mission: Lower East Side. For several months last year, LA and I would walk up from Grand Street near East Broadway following a weekly salsa dance class and choose new places to eat and drink. One night we landed at Nurse Bettie, a fabulous little bar on Norfolk Street near Rivington.
I had plans to indulge in Restaurant Week with my friend Mrs. O, but when we were unable to obtain a reservation, I sent her a link to the Nurse Bettie’s web site knowing she would love the feel, the decor and the vibe.
I arrived a few minutes early and discovered they no longer have a specialty drinks menu. The very cute bartender offered to make me something from the previous menu, but I decided to try a new bourbon.
One of my brothers, who is a bit of a bourbon connoisseur, recently sent me a list of bourbons to try, including Elmer T. Lee, Woodford Reserve, Buffalo Trace and George Stagg. Although I didn’t see those on the shelf, I had never had Knob Creek and decided to give it a go.
The very cute bartender told me Knob Creek is a serious drink. A serious drink, indeed. I am embarrassed to admit I could not finish the second. In my defense they were large pours, the whiskey is 100 proof and my stomach was empty. I was not about to repeat Wednesday night despite the epiphany that came with the hangover.
The bartender recommended Basil Hayden (which I already enjoy) and Baker’s though he prefers Jameson’s over bourbon because it’s sweeter. He is not, however, a sweets man, a fact which surfaced during a conversation about the cupcakes Mrs. O and I were enjoying from Baby Cakes, a vegan bakery on on Broome Street .
I explained to the bartender that I like the Babycake's cupcakes for just that reason. They are not sugary, just perfectly sweetened with agave syrup. He actually knew what agave syrup is and had a positive opinion about its use to sweeten beverages. I was becoming increasingly tempted to hang out and flirt, however, the thought of staying up until 5:00 a.m. when his shift ended seemed impossible. Yikes. I am getting old. Remember back in the Digital Girl days? (See Irish in the DG archives.)
In between bourbon discussions and cupcakes, I confirmed with Mrs. O what was just a thought the previous morning. “I’m over it. I just can’t waste any more time or energy going through it.” And, because I finally gave voice to the words, they were true.
So there you have it. The break-up has been digested, an unexpected side effect of comfort food, excessive drinking, cup cakes and the indispensable company of good friends.
And, now I am at Mrs. O’s having lots of fabulous food and drink while the Superbowl plays on the wall in a giant projection. I contributed homemade jalapeno poppers (thanks to Emeril and his baked jalapeno poppers recipe). We aren't that much into football but the game is a great excuse to get together and cook!
Stay tuned! The fun and food will continue!
As I avoid the Superbowl and read your blog, I have three thoughts:
ReplyDelete1. I need you to make me some jalapeno poppers because those were, by far, the best jalapeno poppers I've ever had.
2. I can use some of that random factor in my social life.
3. Best bourbon EVER: Pappy Van Winkle -- smooth, with butterscotchy undertones. Check it out:
lifehttp://www.oldripvanwinkle.com/newbs/vw/website3.nsf/docsbykey/HNEY-5FFM32?opendocument