I live in Manhattan, where life ain’t cheap. Master of the obvious, right? While I love keeping quality ingredients in my apartment, sometimes I have to *gasp* buy precooked, frozen stuff to eat, because A) I don’t have time and B) it’s cheaper. Lest I be accused of some Sandra Lee “Semi-homemade” BS, let’s come out and say: whatever, yo. I can’t afford to eat sustainably, locally, trendily all of the time. It’s too hard. It’s too expensive. It takes too much damn time.
Just recently, my good friend Kirsten gifted me an amazing cookbook, the Tupelo Honey Cafe, which is not only rife with some tasty recipes (sweet potato pancakes with peach butter, anyone?), but also acts as a great guide to the Asheville area and its local food scene. Flipping through the book, I came across a recipe for oven-roasted tomatoes that was so simple, I couldn’t help but look at my vegetable bowl at the soon-to-spoil tomatoes. I knew what I had to do.
It’s so easy to come home from a long day at work (in my case, 10 hours managing a wine shop, which is not as glamorous or lovely as it sounds) and. Just. Give. Up. Preparing food is the last thing on my mind, but obviously, a guy’s gotta eat. Oh, and feed the Sig O, (who happens to be kitchen-literate in his own right). But still. Dinner! It has to happen! Put food in my mouth then send me to bed, my brain tells me upon arriving home on Sunday nights.
I must oblige. Continue reading “Sunday Dinner: Soba Noodle Salad”
I don’t know about you, but the only thing keeping me sane is knowing there’s a pitcher of sangria waiting in the fridge. For, you know, emergencies…
Continue reading “The Cure for What Ails You: Sangria”
It can never be said that Juneau is easy to reach. The only US state capital with no road access, it can only be accessed by air and plane, according to Welcometoalaska.com. In this isolated seaside town, I never expected to come across–in my opinion–the best chowder, hands down. Like, seriously.Continue reading “Juneau’s Local Royalty”
I was lucky: my hotel room faced southeast. I felt the sun (when there were no clouds) peek through the gossamer curtains, waking me up with a soft orange kiss. I always woke around dawn. Good, because I had work to do; terrible, because I had work to do. After a quick shower, I slipped into my clothes and boots and headed out.
I would turn left upon leaving the airy stone lobby. Another left put me on Kalvebod Brygge, a thorough way which would take me closer to my destination, Christianhavn. I expected a fifteen minute walk and there was no hurry. I had walked miles of cobblestone for days, but always near the city center. This morning, I walked for myself.Continue reading “Copenhagen + Halos”
Another day, another rosé from Provence. Truth be told, I think I stumbled upon my first gateway-wine with my last tasting.
I was lucky enough to taste this beauty (Pomponette) at work and were it not for its small production/limited supply, I’d daresay I found my vino for the summer.
Think about your perfect day. The smells, the light, the sights and sounds. We all have one; just try to conjure that memory up somehow.Continue reading “Pomp + Circumstance: Another Rosé from Provence”
Now look, I’m a man with working manparts and I just don’t understand what everyone’s deal is with us masculine-types drinking the blush. It’s good. It’s refreshing. It’s often not as acidic as a white, but certainly not as moody as some reds. On a somewhat spring-like day like today, it just puts me in the mood to frolic, so what’s wrong with that, amirite?
Now, this post is more a thinky, “I have feelings about something” post, mostly about my move to this city.
So there I was, halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge going into Manhattan when my chest started burning, as if Hell decided to break a dimensional gate and the most convenient point of entry was my chest. (Correction: I actually am the tubby, bed-ridden troll my food and wine posts will have you believe.) And I kind of gave up, which made me realize: I might be a coward? Which, fuck, what an eternally depressing thought, to be confronted with the whole of your life’s decision on this random existential run, which started off as an act of health or wellness or something, when really, it was a combination of your subconscious and soupy muscles deciding to drop some heavy shit on your mellow. And was it run-related? I don’t think so.Continue reading “In Which I Decide to go for a Run”
I’ve loved Whitney Houston since I was but a lad and I don’t think anything I write can properly express how much I’m going to miss her. Were I to delve into my earliest memories, I remember only four different musical talents being played in my home: Prince, Michael Bolton, Phil Collins and Whitney. Can you guess the two I loved the most?
Whitney was my earliest in musical education. I remember how my limbs moved of their own accord when she came on, how my little tiny vocal cords wanted to belt it out with her. She brought me such joy and lightness, and fuck all if I don’t want to cry my eyes out right now.
It’s often said our most powerful sense is our sense of smell. Smell is tied directly to taste, and if you consult someone more science-y than me, they’ll tell you that it is powerfully connected to memory. When I opened this bottle of Matteo Correggia earlier, having had no previous knowledge of it outside of a coworker’s suggestion, I immediately related it to today’s loss of Whitney and her voice. Continue reading “Whitney + Wine: How Will I Mourn?”