A pair of tight ass jeans clings to this gut, swollen in delight and trepidation.  I came to Mexico to cook but all I do is eat.  An angel has descended upon my shores:  she is sweet and frail and oh so quiet.

Oh so quiet.

She is, as it turns out, a chef.  A chef willing and dying to please.  Me.  Her señora, as she calls me.

I am in luck.

I am in awe.

I am totally beside myself.

Out from the pristine kitchen (she keeps this way) come fabulous combinations of her native Mexico:  chiles en nogada, fideos secos (served with ripe avocado and a drizzling of crema), sopa de Nogales, sopes, and tinga.  I eagerly eat it all in glee and she quietly (for she knows no other way) awaits my response, my reaction, my amazement, which always feels understated in the …Read on

I can’t believe how hot South Florida can get.  I step outside at 7:00 am to pick up my newspaper (you know, that rectangular piece of plastic melting on my driveway) and I am hit by a wall of humidity and a whopping 91 degrees.  At 7:00 am remember. And we’re in September.

My son is excited by this weather harassment.  He can’t wait to try and fry an egg on our new VW Tiguan (‘Try papi’s car,’ I suggest.)  Well at least he’s got a culinary mind frame. I could look at this whole thing half-glass-full and celebrate a kid headed towards a creative cooking career that may lead to a house on the beach for his mama.  Yes, it will still be damn hot but at least there will be a breeze.

Right now there’s nothing.

Even my air-conditioning moans in …Read on

Summer is here. For Floridians it’s easy to note:  humidity and hurricanes. Lots of talk of both.  What used to be a pleasant sit outside, to read, to walk, to lounge, suddenly becomes a friggin’ sauna.  It’s okay. It’s all right. We Floridians are used to it.  Or we are all transplanted New Yorkers and used to kvetching.  Either way, it works.

But needless to say, summer brings on the glorious tomatoes.  The little ones, big ones, ugly ones- you name it, we have it.  I always feel a tad guilty eating just any old tomato.  You have to be careful nowadays, resourceful.  Make sure that baby is politically correct and not the byproduct of social injustice.  Our tomatoes got bad rap for that reason in the past.  So now I am diligent.  I go to my local farmer’s market, or, …Read on

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