Richard Olney’s “Simple French Food” is a beautiful book, but written in a bitingly straightforward fashion with no sympathy for your lack of skills.
Being a big home cook, I’ve learned the heard way that the first cut is the deepest. The combination of a dull blade and clumsy fingers is a recipe for disaster, I’ll tell you what. Earlier this year, Ian and I wanted to up our knife game in the kitchen. After gifting him with a pair of beautiful but intimidatingly sharp chef’s and paring knives, I decided that knife skills classes wouldn’t be a bad idea, too. After putzing online for a bit, I decided to sign us up at Brooklyn Kitchen. With two locations in Brooklyn and Manhattan, as well as a number of classes held throughout the month, it was an obvious choice. Besides, it was also the least expensive, relative to places like the ICC’s knife skills classes. For convenience’s sake, I opted for knife classes at the Gotham West Side Market location. Located in Hell’s Kitchen, this new market of shops and pop-up counters of grade A grub is not dissimilar to Chelsea Market, though not as big or crowded. Definitely …
Take a load off with some of the things which caught my attention on the Interwebs today.
It’s few and far between that any wine leaves a bad taste in my mouth, especially when it’s something as delicious as this Can Feixes, from Spain. But when you get, you know, scorned or something by no less than *ahem* a priest, well, bad taste is all you have left. (Disclaimer: he was Episcopalian and in seminary, but still, how funny is it to call him a priest? Pretty damn funny, so just go with it.) Basically, I met a dude on the Internet. You know, the same old story: boy gets lonely, boy goes online, boy messages other boy-who-would-be-priest, boy-who-would-be-priest says “sure, let’s go out.” And lo and behold, we had a great first date! Neither of us was creepy (apparently. At least, he wasn’t; can’t say much for myself), there were no majorly awkward silences and if I can be so bold, conversation was stellar. Hell, we even shared some key lime pie. Key lime fucking pie. Call Nora Ephron now, damn it!