I have a bit of a problem. I seem to accrete jars of jam. I can’t help it. I don’t have compulsive-jam-buying disorder or anything; people gift them to me, homemade-style. I also make jam myself at a rate which far exceeds my jam-eating capabilities (which happens to be rather low). Few activities feel more satisfyingly domestic goddess-ish than lining up a dozen warm jars of freshly canned preserves, listening to the ‘shluurrp’ as the lids seal themselves down, one by one. Gazing upon their jewel-like colors induces daydreams of ‘larders’ and ‘simpler times’ where ‘homesteaders’ had to ‘put things by’ in order to last through the ‘lean winter.’
There are a lot of places in the world I haven’t traveled to; like, most of them. Being terrified of flying doesn’t help matters. My earliest memory is of running along the beach in Hawaii when I was three; I’ve been around the states a bit, including, unfortunately, Texas; Jay and I roadtripped up to British Columbia last fall; I spent a year living in Bologna, Italy, during my junior year at UCSC, which had been preceeded by the obligatory, drunken, post-high-school romp through western Europe. But that’s about it.
Voulez-vous fraisage avec moi?
This is what my pie dough whispered discreetly in my ear as I worked its buttery bits into the flour mixture last night. Pourquoi pas? I thought.
Aside from a certain shredded wheat neurosis (in which said block of cereal had to be thoroughly decimated and submerged in milk before I would touch it) I was never a particularly picky eater. At age 7, I became obsessed with sushi and declared it my favorite food. I ate fairly heartily, usually finishing the comestibles on my plate without a fuss. I didn’t love vegetables, but I would eat them as necessary. (Oh, except when I didn’t feel like it. Then I would ask to be excused outside, where I would toss my greens off of the deck and into the bushes below.)
Here in San Francisco, summer often begins in September and ends in November. Yes, you read that correctly. Summer. That’s of course not counting the teaser heatwave we have every February in which we put on sundresses and drink mimosas out on the sidewalk, rejoicing the end of winter. Before another six months of gloom set in and dispel this myth.
Making delicious roasted potatoes is so easy, there is really no excuse for the pale, bland, flaccid wedges you often find when brunching out. The roots are simply cut, tossed with olive oil and salt, and ignored in the oven for an hour until they develop a crunchy crust and soft interior.