Some people are chef-chasers, meal-collectors. Being at the right restaurant exactly when it’s the newest thing so they can say they ate there first, or knew so-and-so would be the next Top Chef long before anyone else is where it’s at. Some want to be the first in line for Chef’s take on ramps, rhubarb, some adored garlic chive tangle and five different soft-shell crab specials each spring. Some people rank bathrooms (no really, they do) at the city’s best eateries. The thing is, I don’t know these people, and secretly, I’m kind of relieved.
Flashback: The Great February Pickle-athon: Inspired by Cathy’s fantastic account about pickling Brussels sprouts with fennel fronds on Serious Eats, I decided it time that I go beyond the giardiniera and the lightly-soused red onions and into the great thereafter of vacuum seals and factory-like precision. Of course, I didn’t use her recipe–why would I do that? I knew it would work! What fun could that be?–but one I’d seen several pickle junkies swear by on Chowhound.
As what would a weblog be without the at least occasional, melodramatic confession, today a morning after which not a single new thing was prepared in the Smitten Kitchen last night (Tuesday’s yoga and volleyball night, and I’ll let you work who does what. Always such mystery!) seems the perfect time to dislodge one of mine: Sometimes I cook things, love them to pieces, but hate the photos I took of the dishes so I never tell you about them. Can you imagine anything more pathetic? The pictures make me cringe so much that it upstages the deliciousness within! Could I be a little more crackpot, a little less rock-and-roll?