tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62667770622848139122012-01-06T16:34:22.902-05:00A life in food, bite by bite.VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.comBlogger291100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-90907200592661426642011-11-13T10:44:00.001-05:002011-11-13T10:20:16.638-05:00

I 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-76907310175306442902011-08-10T19:14:00.006-04:002011-12-15T08:31:15.292-05:00

The North Fork of long island has been my playground since childhood. My grandparents bought property on a small little street in a small little town dappled with potato farms and cornfields. There are photographs of my mother, full bellied with me inside, amidst the construction of the house. And since birth the house and I have been kindred spirits. I can remember the first times my family

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-6256093152530636902010-11-23T22:34:00.007-05:002010-11-24T10:40:31.369-05:00

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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-37310179438524989362010-05-23T11:18:00.009-04:002010-05-24T16:16:21.027-04:00

Trying 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-84349454831946371702010-05-16T14:45:00.005-04:002010-05-17T15:56:39.036-04:00

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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-92124772792160965192010-04-29T21:24:00.013-04:002010-04-29T22:25:23.544-04:00

This 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-17371662766148141162010-04-14T21:43:00.005-04:002010-04-14T22:12:09.359-04:00

My 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-89898204112898884532010-04-11T22:31:00.003-04:002010-04-11T22:55:44.583-04:00

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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-37153542104990093782010-04-07T22:31:00.004-04:002010-04-07T23:09:46.603-04:00

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,

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-58240657599822031532010-03-30T21:41:00.009-04:002010-03-31T22:44:03.784-04:00

So 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,

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-49934581210040527212010-02-08T19:36:00.003-05:002010-02-08T21:35:18.314-05:00

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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-44015206423438674162010-02-08T19:09:00.001-05:002010-02-08T19:09:12.678-05:00

Sorry 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.

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-10393937757051155062010-01-30T11:24:00.001-05:002010-01-30T11:24:19.857-05:00

The 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-51661563726995734932010-01-21T20:24:00.002-05:002010-04-14T22:14:05.190-04:00

The 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 and

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-26104222502066833082010-01-16T12:12:00.006-05:002010-01-19T20:36:50.569-05:00

I'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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-52508517414550642762010-01-06T20:56:00.008-05:002010-01-07T10:55:43.100-05:00

In 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-22162753609024350342010-01-04T21:34:00.000-05:002010-01-04T21:35:29.333-05:00

It 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-82593337282301010532010-01-03T16:39:00.005-05:002010-01-03T19:55:34.965-05:00

Sometimes 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, Aunt

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-57874789891413483052010-01-02T15:32:00.003-05:002010-01-02T15:58:30.302-05:00

Happy 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-4208476215646692302009-12-30T22:23:00.006-05:002009-12-31T00:00:04.197-05:00

My 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-67440725276372337132009-12-29T11:17:00.006-05:002009-12-30T14:40:02.107-05:00

As 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 the

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-25514733317187049632009-12-28T10:49:00.019-05:002009-12-28T15:41:08.066-05:00

The 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 to the

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-39879328936521599902009-12-27T17:08:00.004-05:002009-12-28T10:49:31.902-05:00

The 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

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-37479109799850943622009-12-26T11:10:00.003-05:002009-12-26T13:42:14.676-05:00

Sorry for the lack of post on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I've gotten sucked into the holiday vortex. I WILL be back with a new entry tomorrow! For now hope you all had a holiday filled with yummy food and good times.

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-15009558030162028832009-12-23T10:44:00.004-05:002009-12-23T11:10:58.944-05:00

"Ladies and Gentlemen across America, welcome to 'Cook with Me!' A show dedicated to teaching you how to make delicious meals in your very own kitchen. I'm your host, Christina, and I'll take you step by step, using ingredients right out of your pantry."When I was eleven, I hosted a cooking show, broadcast from my kitchen, in my head. Those precious days of winter break just before Christmas

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-15007803665814498562009-12-22T17:48:00.009-05:002009-12-22T23:20:54.628-05:00

(continued from yesturday's post)As Kristin and I sat, we began to talk about our childhoods and our parents and grandparents, and their different cooking commandments. And we fell into a topic which is the crux of a much heated debate: Butter vs. Oil. Kristin, herself, is in the school of butter. Where as I'm from the school of oil. The mason-dixson line which seperates the two sides lies

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-22678614372484130412009-12-21T13:48:00.001-05:002009-12-21T17:12:38.682-05:00

A friend of mine threw a holiday dinner party on Saturday night. Kristin, a kitchen master in her own right, presented a spread of chafing trays (yes, she owns chafing trays) filled with home made creations emitting a scent so delicious you couldn't keep your fingers out of them. I, for one, may have eaten an entire platter of stuffed mushrooms on my own, but I'm not admitting to anything. As

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-34931662987868942172009-12-20T15:55:00.000-05:002009-12-21T09:38:23.701-05:00

When I was nine, my mother signed me up for tap, jazz and ballet classes at the local community center. I was so excited to start classes and get my first pink leotard and set of tap shoes. I remember the brown speckled tile floor of the town center, the yellow light that washed the dance room, and the click of my shiny tap shoes. My lessons, however, were short lived, and I never really knew

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6266777062284813912.post-75307836906461341332009-12-19T13:46:00.000-05:002009-12-19T14:09:48.044-05:00

I've come to a crossroads of sorts in life, where I've decided its important to set aside time to do the things that I love, mainly to write. Simply for myself, and the pleasure of writing. I've long stood by the mantra of "write what you know." I've spent a lot of time thinking about what it is I know. We're taught through high school and college to become "well rounded" human beings. Play

VanillaSprinklehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12062704190512293810noreply@blogger.com1