Somehow, today marks two years that I’ve been blogging here with all of you (!!), and I’m feeling rather romantic about a number of things. About the blog, yes. And also: every stitch of clothing in the latest Anthro catalogue. This sofa.
Chef Sean Brock.
Be still my beating heart, this is a crush I won’t be shaking any time soon.
I had the chance to dine at the original Husk restaurant in Charleston, South Carolina when my mom and I embarked on our unforgettable Southern Eats birthday road trip this time last year. We arrived for lunch just as the restaurant opened, my pulse as tickled with anticipation as my skin was tacky with the coastal Carolina humidity. The burger lived up the hype. The impossibly creamy grits a whimsical celebration of a cuisine that, as Sean insists in his season of The Mind of a Chef, really is rooted to the soil of the South and the fruits, veggies and heirloom grains it pushes forth. Of course there’s pig, and fried chicken, white gravies — all of which is slap yo’ momma good (I refrained, as she was to be my travel companion for a good week or more). But it’s so much more seasonal in story than my Calicentric self allowed me to imagine. And Sean talks about it with an infectious joy that my Samsung flatscreen is powerless to contain. That has found me stupidly grinning to the point of cheek strain, fists curled into balls, on the literal edge of my seat, on more than one occasion over the past couple of weeks.
Netflix, you matchmaker.
With Chef Sean Brock, I maintain, I am irrevocably smitten.
Or rather the wannabe chef within me, I suppose. The green-thumbed heroine of farm to fork persuasion that wields a paring knife as one might wield poetry, skillfully exposing one sun-ripened verse at a time.
She and Sean are a match made in heaven.
I can only try my best.
Hey guys, and welcome to Day Two of Street Corn Two Ways. It’s a pretty efficient series. Yesterday, we started things off with this classic Mexican Street Corn thingy and today we’re wrappin’ it on up with an islandy (I guess? For lack of better descriptor?) spin that’s sweet and salty and soy-y and scallion-y and best of all bests — SPAMMY.
SPAM is, no joke, one of my most favorite food groups ever. Like, remember that time I was like, “out with factory farmed meat!”
Um, canni tell you a secret?
I never ditched the SPAM.
(Shhhhhhhhhh, fancy people think this blog is clean and legit and whole foodsie and stuff.)
Ok guys. Here it is: the post (or rather, posts) that’s officially gonna take your “waaaaaah it’s already August, Poopiecakes McBacktoschool” and turn it into “it’s peak sweet corn season beeeyahs, mah summer’s juuuuuuust getting started!!”
Because a summer without corn is just pool hair and ReddiWip.
Ear cuffs and Dippin’ Dots. Rollerblades and boy bands.
Oh, sorry, thought we were listing our fave childhood shit.
Are you still there?
The shameful thing is that corn actually isn’t all that commonplace in our house, even when it’s at the peak of candy-sweet, 10-for-a-dolla awesomeness. The simplest explanation would be that Chris is so neutral on corn that it breaks my heart a little each time he fails to give it even a passing glance. But really, it’s because corn in our house turns into, without fail, all the corn in my belly. Ever. Like six ears in one sitting and then it’s at least half an hour of “baaaaaaaaaaabe whydyoulemmeeatsomuch cooooooooooooooooooorn.” And then some corny bathroom comment, because together Chris and I have a combined age of, like, 11.
This season, though, I was lucky enough to find corn in our crisper more than once, and after seeing vendor upon vendor packing sweetly charred kernals of mayo-draped corn into tiny plastic cups along the Malecon, I kinda had to follow suit.
Oh heyyo friendsies! Long time no chitchattle. Somehow those five days of Mexican bliss I referred to in my last post stretched out into more than a week of no bloggy blogging – and real talk, it was kind of splendid. Not that I don’t love hanging ‘round these parts talking about donuts and dranks, but it is just toooo nice to have someone else – yeah, like someone that’s not me – do the making of the dranks and the delivering of the dranks while I do the lounging on the beach. Which, I’ve determined, I kick major ass at, BTW. I am a superb beacher-upper. Er. Play on, playa. Heh. Also, pirate ships. And THE BEST TACOS I’ve ever had, ever, ever. WhAt!
So I made these croquettes (can we call them ‘quettes?) approximately forever ago with the intention of posting them up sometime before all that #soletspigout bidnit, and then. Well, life happened or something. And by life happened, I mean Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Because I’m like three seasons behind. And who needs sunshine.
Before this post runs away from me, as so many of them do, I’ll just start by saying: if you’re here for the recipe, alone, I know this looks like a crapload of ingredients and steps, but I beg of you – don’t be intimidated. The allure of these bowls lies in their lovingly forgiving … Continue reading
I did it again. It’s getting dangerously close to 90 degrees outside, and here I am talking about soup. I feel like we’ve been here once before. Ah, yes, the Famous Cheesy Broccoli Soup of Spring 2014. Jeez, it wasn’t even that long ago.
But this time is different. This time, I know you guys will forgive me. Because look at this soup.
Its supremely lovely hue. That hypnotic swirl of green garlic cream that begs of you to put down the remote…pick up the spoon…you are not Olivia Pope…you are not Olivia Pope…you ARE NOT Olivia Pope…
I suppose now might be a good time to confess just how many eps of Scandal I’ve devoured in the past 24 hours. I’d heard all the rumors, but in short? UH.Dicted. It makes coping with the 80+ degree temps inside my house nearly tolerable. Frequent trips to the freezer are helping, too. Open freezer. Insert head. Consult box of Arm & Hammer from 2011 on how best to go about asking landlord for an AC unit. Realize you’re consorting with an air freshener. (A stale one at that.) Opt instead for the well, it can’t get any worse route. Make soup.
And here we are again.
Whoa. Check out them lookers. (Also, check out my mom’s vintage sewing table-turned-sideboard.) (And the rih-dic light in her dining room.) (And my clear lack of something to filter all that pretty light.) (But it is oh so pretty.) (K, I’m done now.) Let’s talk about beets, bay. bee. Sweet, nutty and blitzed with licorice-y … Continue reading