My inner seven-year-old told every single person she saw or spoke to today that she ate dukkah for dinner last night, but she pronounced it “dook-huh” to emphasize the very dookiness of it. My inner sever-year-old, mind you, not me. I am a civilized, professional woman of the age of 30 in sensible Italian boots and a tasteful cashmere sweater would never relish the first reaction of people who heard she ate something foul-sounding for dinner. Nope, not me, not at all.
December, 2006 Archive
Last night, I sauteed some shallots, minced garlic, red and yellow cherry tomatoes and fresh arugula with orecchiette pasta for dinner, and we topped it with a cloud of microplaned parmesan, eating it in front of the (omg) Wire finale. I’m pretty sure it was delicious, though I was barely paying it any mind. Alas, this is the point where you are supposed to ask me, Hey Deb, why does your orecchiette look so… er, unique?
Among the few Food Network chefs that don’t terrify me, Michael Chiarello is high on that list; his cooking, style and not overly-aggressive healthfulness fits cleanly with the type of foods I like to make and we like to eat. But, I have yet to make a recipe of his and it is, quite frankly, because he can be such a pain in the ass. The gray salt, the extra-virgin use for cooking, the $218 Balsamic, the fifteen-step recipes and his endless gadgets put me off. Would it still taste good from the kitchen of Simple Folk? Due to some haphazard sense of principle, I never bother finding out.
Back when I was still getting daily “are you okay?” and “do you need anything” phone calls from my mother after my little rumble with the stairs, she told me one more she’d just made German pancakes for breakfast. “Oh, you remember them, don’t you? I made them once in a while when you were growing up.”