I’m gone.  Have up and left my fridge to its own devices as I recklessly and hungrily galavant throughout France, Israel and Spain for 2 weeks on a quest for incredible eats (and whatever may follow).  I trust a good story or two will come out of my trips.  Until then, make sure your fridge is as crazy-stocked as mine.  And if it gets out of control (my tolerance is high): make soup.

Happy Eating!

Me he esfumado. Abandone mi nevera imprudentemente para escaparme a una aventura que recurira partes de Francia, Israel y España durante 2 semanas en búsqueda de comida inolvidable. Confío que un buen cuento o dos saldrá de mis viajes. Hasta entonces, asegúrense que su nevera este tan orgullosamente llena como la mía. Y si empieza a descontrolarse, (mi tolerancia es alta): usen todas …Read on

It is with great secrecy that I pull the tiny foil cube out of its box.  I admit to being temporarily riddled by a wave of guilt, no doubt hordes of culinary experts would immediately disregard me as a cook not worthy of gastronomic attention if they knew I housed these in my closet, let alone used them.

The conspirators are my tiny bright yellow boxes of bouillon cubes.  I have all flavors attainable:  “cubito de pollo,” “cubito de carne” and “cubito de pescado,” with a haphazard scribble of a chicken, cow and fish to clarify.  I always buy the box in Spanish, no doubt it tastes exactly as salty and processed as its English counterpart, but I believe most things sound and feel better in Spanish: deja de jurungear (stop messing around), dando y dando, pajarito volando (scratch …Read on

Good things come in small packages, so goes the cliché, and this week the small packages included two kids with lots and lots of dirty tissues. I should have picked up on the red flags hitting me in the face when my daughter began her typical deconstruction of events.

First, there was the academic question:

“Mom, are you sure we can’t feel the earth’s rotation on its axis?” (i.e., I’m dizzy as hell.)

Then, the philosophical question:

“If I am sweating like crazy, but I am not exercising, am I still sweating?”

(i.e., I am burning up a wicked fever; please oh please shove a thermometer in my mouth, mother.)

And finally, the biggest signal of them all, the culinary question:

“Do I have to eat something?”

(i.e., if you …Read on

Next Wednesday marks my twelfth year married to my husband, and, our cheesy Hallmark-card infatuation with each other still burns strong. Sure, he sort of snores at night (not that loud, outright snore, but the low, gurgling snuffle that spontaneously darts into high peaks waking me in a panic), but I forgive him this (or just kick him out of the room) because we all have our faults, and I’ll gladly live with his for the benefits his company brings. Still, within all our love and devotion there lies a gap. Huge, silent, and very deep, it sits like a sinking hole, quietly threatening all harmony in our relationship. The culprit to our animosity is the cucumber and it has created a great divide. One would normally not place such power on the making or …Read on

The other day I was in the supermarket’s produce section buying some leeks. An older woman approached me and very cautiously asked me, “What is that?” referring to the two robust bulbs I held in my hand. The question caught me off guard. For a second, I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “These are leeks,” I replied, very matter-of-factly.”Leeks?” she said, the word clearly rolling off her tongue for the first time. “And what do you do with those?”These are the moments where I dive into my own personal world of self-pity, revisiting my self-appointed tragedy as the urbanite trapped in a suburban universe where leek cluelessness reigns. There are so many positive reasons to live in the ‘burbs, of course: the great schools, pretty parks, and safe and quiet environment, and, …Read on