tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62667770622848139122024-03-13T00:23:47.844-04:00Just a dash...A life in food, bite by bite.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-2775601972346316642015-11-22T12:53:00.000-05:002015-11-22T12:53:09.309-05:00Pot of gold
My Father's Mother (Nonna Lina) is a short, sturdy woman, with kind eyes and worker's hands. She's 81 years old, but still digs up 80 kilos of potatoes at the begining of every summer from the small plot of farmland behind the apartment where my father spent most of his childhood. With my grandfather working long hours in the coal mine, my father spent a lot of time helping Nonna Lina tend to Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-81905839455044395872013-12-03T09:24:00.000-05:002015-02-09T10:47:35.085-05:00One woman show
Growing up in my household, we were prepared to feed a party of 50 at any sunday night dinner, leftovers were packaged and sent to neighbors and friends, and of course there were still remnants left for lunch the next day (and the next day, and the next day). In our family, food is love, and we are a household of lovers. From before I was old enough to peek over the counters, I was sitting in Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-7566782254173511362013-10-18T08:46:00.000-04:002013-10-18T08:46:18.711-04:00Just Add Coffee
I love coffee. I love coffee more than I should. I love coffee more than the average person. (I inherited this from my mother, who has an even more intense relationship with coffee than I do.) I started realizing I had a problem recently, when a group of friends were looking for coffee shops in different neighborhoods in the city, I had several suggestions for every neighborhood they Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-90907200592661426642011-11-13T10:44:00.001-05:002011-11-13T10:20:16.638-05:00CheeseyI marvel at cheese. Curdled milk, lovingly seperated from the whey, drained and aged. A process so simple you can do it in your own kitchen in just a few hours, and so complex people have dedicated their lives to its perfection. Cheese is a happy process, I have never met an unhappy cheese maker. They know what their cows, goats and sheep have been nibbling on, they know what their cheeses Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-6256093152530636902010-11-23T22:34:00.007-05:002010-11-24T10:40:31.369-05:00Gobble, gobble, gobble.Thanksgiving seems like a perfect time to breathe new life into my long-neglected blog. It is the holiday devoted to the art of feasting. A time for foods that serve little purpose beyond bringing maximum comfort with every forkful. Being Eastern European, the thanksgivings of my childhood included platters of proscuito, milky hand-made cheeses, homemade pastas with venison gravy alongside the Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-37310179438524989362010-05-23T11:18:00.009-04:002010-05-24T16:16:21.027-04:00Turned away at the innTrying to find a dinner spot on a Friday night in the Lower East Side of Manhattan takes some navigation and persistence (often followed by desperation.) Our Friday night old faithful was spoiled by a new obnoxious northwest implant/hipster waiter and an unapologetic hostess, and so I spent the better half of Friday morning researching a new drinking hole that had just the right balance of a Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-84349454831946371702010-05-16T14:45:00.005-04:002010-05-17T15:56:39.036-04:00OJ, soda, purple stuff....My fridge has never been stocked like the average American refrigerator. It was filled with things that would make little blond girls turn up their perfect pointed noses. We were always stocked in liverwurst (my pre-k sandwich of choice, really there's nothing better than creamy calves liver pate smothered on a crispy Portuguese roll -- I was a smart five year old.) Even if I were to have a Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-92124772792160965192010-04-29T21:24:00.013-04:002010-04-29T22:25:23.544-04:00A moveable feastThis past sunday my good friend Kristin and I made our first full french meal from Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child. The book is truly a plethora of culinary knowledge and has each dish explained down to the minute detail (except for some minorly confusing verbiage in the souffle recipe...which when it comes to making souffle, its probably not so minor) but all in all our Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-17371662766148141162010-04-14T21:43:00.005-04:002010-04-14T22:12:09.359-04:00HandsMy father has the hands of a butcher. Strong and broad, his palm calloused from the grip of the knife, the rest of the skin softened from animal fat. Hands that are strategic and adept, like a surgeon with a sword, disassembling the pieces of meat that would fill the bellies of his customers. His hands sliced and broke bones, but also carefully and lovingly wrapped up each steak in brown Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-89898204112898884532010-04-11T22:31:00.003-04:002010-04-11T22:55:44.583-04:00Words to the (counter clock)wise.The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I twirl my spaghetti the wrong way. Whenever my fork digs in to that heaping pile of pasta and tomato sauce, I can feel my mother's wandering eye gazing down at my counter clockwise twirling utensil. "Why don't you use a spoon," she suggests. A spoon? A spoon just means one more obstacle between my lips and the linguine. I have no Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-37153542104990093782010-04-07T22:31:00.004-04:002010-04-07T23:09:46.603-04:00Life happens.The food writing class I had enrolled in has officially come to an end, and yet it oddly feels like the beginning. I feel like I've finally released the breath I've been holding for too long. Its interesting, to be a part of something with people that have such diverse backgrounds united by a common passion for food. For us foodies, food is not sustenance. Food is pleasure and heartache, Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-58240657599822031532010-03-30T21:41:00.009-04:002010-03-31T22:44:03.784-04:00SurrealSo after a long hiatus, its time to stop neglecting my beloved writing place. I think I was too ambitious trying to put a post every day, and that made it too easy to give up entirely. So, as I promised myself, before the end of this month, I would start writing again, here I am on March 31st. I've decided to restructure, I'm going to post at least twice a week, on Sunday and Wednesday evenings,Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-49934581210040527212010-02-08T19:36:00.003-05:002010-02-08T21:35:18.314-05:00Like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.The last two evenings I've spent concocting in my kitchen. Following my tummy and my nose for twists on comfort food, all the while trying too keep it on the fresh and healthy side. On Saturday night, after having watched Lidia Bastianich make a bolognese that could probably get me on a flight to bologna, I was craving pasta and meat sauce. And really, in life, few things satisfy quicker than a Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-44015206423438674162010-02-08T19:09:00.001-05:002010-02-08T19:09:12.678-05:00My apologies for an abandoned postSorry to have cut the last post short, particularly at what some might say is the most important part. The dessert was an apple tart. Ever so slightly and delightfully sweetened. A sweet ending to a sweet evening.Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-10393937757051155062010-01-30T11:24:00.001-05:002010-01-30T11:24:19.857-05:00The times they are a changingThe last few weeks have been full of big life decisions and somewhat scary changes. I've made the decision to go back to school in the fall, and frightening grown up thoughts like health insurance and bank accounts have been dominating my thoughts. I know no matter what it will all turn out ok, but for now it feels like I'm closing my eyes, holding me breath and taking a giant leap into a dark Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-51661563726995734932010-01-21T20:24:00.002-05:002010-04-14T22:14:05.190-04:00A sight, a taste, a soundThe other night, wandering through the city, I came across a memory. It was an old, but strong one, that some how seemed to pop into my head quite often, but I could never quite place it. For a long while I thought maybe I had imagined the whole scene.It was a restaurant, dimly lit, with red leather booths, worn with age. Atop each table was a checkered red and white cloth and a caddy for oil andChristinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-26104222502066833082010-01-16T12:12:00.006-05:002010-01-19T20:36:50.569-05:00When there's nothing to write aboutI've been going through a bit of a dry spell on the writing front. A lot has been happening personally and at work lately that have prevented me from putting together an entry I could be proud of. Nearly every night this past week I've stared at my empty blog space, my curser blinking accusedly at me. I started and stopped, started and stopped, all the while the words of my prose professor Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-52508517414550642762010-01-06T20:56:00.008-05:002010-01-07T10:55:43.100-05:00Honey on a PlaneIn the papers today was an article about several gatorade bottles filled with honey found in a man's suitcase that caused an uproar at an airport. The quote that really got me was the Sheriff's reaction "Why in this day and age would someone take a chance carrying honey in Gatorade bottles?"Now, I happen to know WHY in this day and age someone would carry honey in Gatorade bottles. Because when Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-22162753609024350342010-01-04T21:34:00.000-05:002010-01-04T21:35:29.333-05:00Soup, soup, soup, soupIt seems as of late, my entries have mostly been about comfort food and soup, and finally what my subconscious was trying to tell me has materialized. I'm not feeling too peachy today. I'm not sure what I've got, but I've definitely got something. I bundled myself up, and trekked out to work this morning, only to almost faint on the bus. So after a few hours of vigorously emailing, I bundled Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-82593337282301010532010-01-03T16:39:00.005-05:002010-01-03T19:55:34.965-05:00The faraway islesSometimes on a lazy sunday afternoon all that is needed is a few hours, the isles of a supermarket, a grocery list, and cheesy 90's music playing over the speakers. I often find myself singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" aloud as I browse the selection of teas. When I'm grocery shopping I find myself in a completely relaxed state. Maybe its because I'm among good friends, Chiquita Banana, AuntChristinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-57874789891413483052010-01-02T15:32:00.003-05:002010-01-02T15:58:30.302-05:00Beef soup for the soulHappy 2010 to all! I hope you all are abided by superstition and ate your lentils and avoided anything that flies, for fear of fleeting fortunes in the new year. I'm hoping for a lot of change in life for the new year. 2010 has a lot to live up to, and how did I spend the first day of the new year? Making a 16 quart pot of beef broth. Beef broth, to me, is the mother of all comfort foods, a Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-4208476215646692302009-12-30T22:23:00.006-05:002009-12-31T00:00:04.197-05:00Death by cheesecakeMy mother is the type of the person who would have a heart attack over a cheesecake. We'd call 911 and they'd ask how it happened:"Cheesecake.""Cheesecake?""Yes, cheesecake.""I don't think one piece of cheesecake would cause a heart attack.""No, she didn't eat the cheesecake, she didn't even make the cheesecake yet. She was so stressed out over making it that she had a heart attack."This amazes Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-67440725276372337132009-12-29T11:17:00.006-05:002009-12-30T14:40:02.107-05:00Table for oneAs much as food is something that brings people together, I sit here on this cold December evening in a little cafe on Avenue B, my hot cup of tea at my side, watching the sky change its colors alone. I know a table for one is sometimes much needed. At a table alone with a cookie and a cup you have license to do all those things you can't do at a big meal with lots of company. Eavesdrop on theChristinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-25514733317187049632009-12-28T10:49:00.019-05:002009-12-28T15:41:08.066-05:00A pound of shorteningThe bright yellow tub of Crisco® on my grandmother's counter meant it was going to be a good day. When I was a child, we lived in a two family house above my mother's parents. Each morning I would thump down the flight of of brown carpeted steps to my grandparent's ground floor apartment to play in the yard. Most days my grandparents would be busy about their chores, fixing things, going Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-39879328936521599902009-12-27T17:08:00.004-05:002009-12-28T10:49:31.902-05:00For the love of Le CreusetThe Christmas holiday has left me exhausted. With so much happening, its been hard for me to settle on one particular story to share. My thoughts have been scattered, crowded by the gatherings of old friends, impromptu visits, crowded shopping centers, and the memory of Christmas dinner (an event where the main course included both filet mignon and roasted quails...flight and turf?). Despite all Christinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1