It rained on Saturday. Not the type of apocalyptic storm that DC’s extreme heat and humidity usually brews up on summer evenings, but a slow and steady grey rain all day long. And we welcomed it. After a week of blistering temperatures and swamp-like air with heat indexes over one hundred degrees, we were happy to hunker down in the apartment and listen to the rain tap the windows. We played games, ordered food from the Afghan restaurant up the street, and quietly whiled away the hours. Continue reading
Monthly Archives: June 2015
Happy Memory Pie
The recipe I’m sharing with you today is strange. While it’s called a gratin, it’s really more of a vegetable pie in a couscous crust. I found it on the side of a jar of wheat germ seven or eight years ago, which is also strange. I mean, who buys wheat germ? And then there’s the fact that I still regularly buy wheat germ just to make this recipe that I’m not even that crazy about. So, why share it with you? It’s partly because Matt requested it this week, but mostly because it reminds me of another strangely delicious baked pasta dish that my grandma used to make for me: spaghetti pie. It was a little brown and crunchy-chewy around the edges and the bottom was dense with egg, topped with tomato sauce and a layer of melted cheese. I adored that spaghetti pie and I was always excited when I got to stay with grandma and grandpa because grandma would always make it for me. I liked it so much she shared the recipe with my mom, but it wasn’t quite the same if grandma didn’t make it. Continue reading
Happy Birthday, Blog!
Today is my blog’s first birthday (!!) and for some reason I can think of nothing more appropriate to share with you than a story of total kitchen failure. I spend a lot of time writing about all the good food that makes its way off my stove and into our bellies, but every once in a while (aka on a semi-regular basis), things go terribly wrong. And there is almost nothing that frustrates me more. Continue reading
Green Thumb Dreams
Every morning on my walk to work I pass the gardener for The Farnsboro condominium building. He is meticulous; raking every last leaf out from between the hydrangeas, pruning each plant to perfection, arranging mulch like Tibetan monks creating sand mandalas. Everyday we exchange pleasantries, and everyday I secretly wish I could stop and play in the dirt and soak up his green thumb secrets. Despite the summers I spent on the farm, I am not nearly the horticulturist I should be. It’s not that I kill every plant I touch, I just haven’t kept every plant alive. Continue reading