![]() Oh, I’ll miss him, but Sharon will be happy. The Chef has to stay here, to keep the restaurant running. * This weekend, I will be in Los Angeles. To remind myself to try harder, to dig beneath the surface of puddles to find the earth again. In the winter, I go back to the craftings of people who know much more than me. They simply appear beneath my hands from the bounty of long sunny days. The words becomes dinner in a matter of hours.ĭuring the summer, I don’t adapt that many recipes. (That’s where the pork chops with sage and apples arrived.) The Chef checks his email, and looks over and smiles at me when I shout out a new idea, like warmed olives with lemon zest and garlic from Alice Waters’ The Art of Simple Food. Lately, after breakfast, I’ve been sitting on the couch, my feet propped up on the coffee table, reading Jamie Oliver’s How to Cook. I stayed in the kitchen for awhile, stirring scrambled eggs more slowly than I had in weeks.Īnd in the quiet cold season, there is more time for perusing cookbooks. For a moment, it felt like spring in the small of my back. Another flash of sunlight shone through the window and landed on my skin. Later in the morning, I went to wash the dishes. ![]() The world doesn’t have to be lush to deserve our attention. Today, I took them everywhere I went.īeauty hides in bare trees and bowls of guacamole. And this watery light, bouncing off the puddles on the side porch, illuminated the OM sign above the door. A sudden burst of sunlight shattered through the rain. When I left the bed to get the Chef another cup of coffee, I turned idly toward the front door. The morning felt long, the sky loomed low. This morning, it rained all morning, an unceasing patter of splattering drops in already overfull puddles. People are trying for fresh starts in the deadest part of the year.īut there is still so much aliveness. Maybe that’s why so many New Year’s resolutions fail. ![]() It’s when the world returns to full bloom. There just isn’t much this time of the year.Īlfred Portale refers to spring as the true start of the year. Last week, we went to the farmers’ market, as we do every Saturday, and the Chef and I were both sad to see only seven stands, huddled together, in that nearly empty parking lot. One walk around the farmers’ market in summer, and I scrawl pages in my food notebook with meals to create. Every day brings something delicious.īut in every other season, I bubble with ideas of foods. We don’t eat leftovers (the Chef isn't fond of them). Last night brought black cod and mashed potatoes, with a tamari-butter sauce and some of Brandon’s pickled sunchokes. Two nights ago, for dinner, we ate pork chops roasted with apples, sage, and Taleggio cheese. It’s harder and harder to be inspired by food. Still, there’s one part of winter that frustrates me no end. ![]() I love being inside, and winter compels me to stay in and make my home. We probably need to hibernate, hunker down, and hum at a lower tone. Summer rushes through me and I just want to move. And there are still two more months to go. Since early November, it has been grey and sodden and silent around here. But let’s face it - winter slips into us far earlier than it says on the calendar. The decadent pleasure of slipping on a sweater for the first time that year. You stick around forever.įor the first couple of months, I enjoy winter. Autumn fades a bit more slowly, but look up and all the trees are suddenly bare. Summer seems to pass in the time it takes to sneeze. Why do you last so much longer than any other season? Spring flashes upon us and turns to summer in a moment. Instead, it’s just that….it’s still winter. It’s not the cold that leaves me shrugging. In terms of winter, we’re pretty lucky in Seattle. It consistently ranks as the record low in the country that day. Poor Gunnison, Colorado (several of the Chef’s nieces and nephews went to college there). Everywhere but Rome and Los Angeles is colder than Seattle. Every morning, the Chef reads me the low temperatures of every place we have been in the past two years. But we usually enjoy much milder winters around here. It’s in the upper 30s, and it’s spitting cold rain. The man who opened the car in front of the restaurant made a guttural noise, and then said, “It’s cold.” Redirection provided by Blogger to WordPress Migration Serviceīackground: #692 url() top center repeat-y īackground: #fff url() top right repeat-y īackground: #8b2 url() bottom left repeat-x īackground: transparent url() top left no-repeat Įverywhere I have been outside in the past two days, people have been shivering and shrugging. Has been moved to new address trying to be inspired in the middle of winter
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