I know, I know, it’s been WAY too long since I’ve posted. And, I could sit here and list out all of my excuses – crushingly busy at work, wedding season, the fact that my un-air-conditioned apartment has been topping 100 degrees lately, and the idea of sitting with my laptop in my lap makes me want to tear off my own skin – but I won’t.

So, first of all… I’m back! From Vegas (yes, again, but this time for work), and from settling into the new job…

So, for this first post since the little Besotted break, I wanted to pay homage to some fantastic holiday gifts I received this year and in years past. From friends who had only known me a couple of months to a couple of decades, they were all perfectly suited for me, and happened to have made their way – in one way or another – into this Pork Chop with Fresh Bay Salt, Crackling, and Squashed Purple Potatoes dish.

I’m always curious to know what people shop for in a supermarket and why? What one person considers a staple, another considers a rare occasion treat. I remember being 13 years old, being at a friend’s house, and they had an enormous, family-sized bag of M&Ms in the pantry… 2 hours later, they didn’t, because I had managed to polish off the vast majority of the bag – I was both permanently hungry and had a much faster metabolism as a teenager. Sadly, only one of those things has changed… but I digress…
The reason for my voracious and greedy appetite was the fact that a bag of M&Ms never entered my own pantry. This was a treat and luxury that I could never have dreamed of – candy, open and available at a moment’s notice – and the cunning little imp in me couldn’t pass up the opportunity to over-indulge.

Ufff… Finally home and back to a regular schedule. Thanksgiving down on the Cape and a few relaxing days up in the New Hampshire White Mountains made for a lovely Thanksgiving weekend, which included my final recipe for the Gourmet-only month of November.

I have to say that my intention for this homage to Gourmet was to be just that, a homage, but I feel like I’m griping about it more than praising it. Here’s the thing about Gourmet… it’s spectacular to look at, day-dream about all of the wonderful urban restaurants and cozy, convivial bed and breakfasts that cure their own bacon, but I’ve found it a touch challenging (and disappointing – I’m sorry!) to cook from.

So, I’m almost two-thirds of the way through my self-imposed Fall-2009-Gourmet-only restraint for November, and I will admit, it’s a lot harder than I thought. I’ve been staring longingly at my Bon Appetit’s, knowing, as I assume the editors at Conde Nast did, that the recipes in BA are a lot more home-cook-full-time-worker friendly. While Gourmet has made the after-thought attempt at the weekday-friendly recipes (and some are quite good), the majority of the magazine is dedicated to 3 hour+ long recipes with ingredients that, quite frankly, I’ve often not heard of. And this is (or, I suppose, was) Gourmet’s tragic flaw – so achingly aspirational, beautiful, untouchable, but in no way practical for the busy home cook trying to eat well on a budget.

PT and I went apple picking last weekend and for the price of a dinner for two, were allowed to roam through a local orchard in Ipswich, chomping on apples, and occasionally dropping the most perfect red, round orbs into a peck-sized bag.

It was a gorgeous day, bright and crisp, and the orchard was helpfully marked with signs indicating where the various tree varieties – fuji, macoun, macintosh, golden delicious – were located. After a visit with the farm’s miniature horse, Possum, who was delightfully sweet and gentle, and a satisfying afternoon snack of fried whole belly clams and clam chowder, PT and I were headed home with more apples than I knew what to do.

I’ve regaled you, dear reader, a few times with some of my more clumsy
and amusing kitchen mishaps, but, thanks to a small dinner party I
threw recently, I have a whole cadre of new tales to tell, which, if
all goes according to plan, will put any fearful hostess-wannabe at
ease about their ability to host lovely, entertaining dinners.

I’m going to Tarantino this tale and start at the end – plates licked
clean, full bellies, and lots of laughter – otherwise, a successful
evening. Now, let’s start at the beginning, and you’ll get a real feel
for what a disaster in the kitchen I am….

Every food blogger has their own reasons for engaging in the odd behaviors, rituals, and self-disciplines that go into maintaining an active food blog – apologizing to loved ones for consistently serving cold food because you needed time to photograph it, rarely cooking the same thing twice because you want to be able to make a post out of something new, timing each part of a recipe’s preparation, in order to give an accurate estimate of the preparation time – it’s all a bit nutty.

Some of us do it because it’s an escape – a place that is our on, but that we share with the thousands (millions?) of food blog readers, some hope to become famous food writers, and some, like me, enjoy the idea of keeping a flexible, updatable library of our favorite recipes (and, yes, I secretly dream of being a famous food writer, as well – with realistic expectations, of course.)

There are certain cookbooks in my library that are stained, dog-earred, and otherwise, lovingly mistreated with their overuse. And then there are those that are not. This latter number is far smaller, and there is one reason why 3 or 4 of my cookbooks are rarely opened…. these cookbooks scare me.

They are all derived from famous restaurants around the globe, were all bought in a fuzzy haze of culinary ambition bordering on delusion, and have fantastic, exotic sounding recipes that, as it turns out, are a bit of a pain in the ass to actually make. When a cookbook actually dictates the type of green you must use (lamb’s lettuce, butter lettuce, red perella, perhaps) as opposed to the quotidian “mesclun mix”, you know you’re in trouble.

One of my favorite things to do is hop on the treadmill at my gym, getting pumped for a nice 5-6 mile run, complete with elevations and surges, and pop on the Food Network (yes, I go to one of those fancy-shmancy gyms with TVs on every treadmill) to watch Ina smear some innocent bird with 10 pounds of butter, or Giada daintily mix three pounds of cheese into a casserole.

A tad incongruous, yes, but there is nothing I like better than working up a VERY big appetite (mine is quite substantial without the long run), whilst watching cooking shows and gathering ideas for that night’s supper.