A Different Life

I no longer have a garden.

I no longer have a kitchen.


I have a shelf full of crackers, a shared mini-fridge, and no possibility of salad rolls in the near future. Welcome to college, Abbie Maynard!

It's going to be fun seeing what I can do with a hot pot in my room and a microwave down the hall.

Uh oh

My oven is broken!

Mum

My mum made these. They are beautiful and she made them in little knots and little pokey things and little sets of triplets! It is exciting.

A Grain of Salt

For dinner, I grill asparagus. Drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt, cracked pepper and put them in the oven. I love the crispy heads. If I was more selfish than I am, I would bite them all off before they ever reached the table.















For the al dente fettuccine, I make brown butter. I cook the butter over very low heat then slowly increase the heat as I grow more and more impatient. A little shy of medium would have been fine to start out with, I note for future reference. It bubbles then darkens. I am unsure what to do with the mushrooms. In the end, I decide to cook them in the butter right before serving. I'm using button mushrooms, but I would like to try this again with a more exotic mushroom. I am working on creating something that is subtle, but not bland. This really isn't a bad start. Sea salt and cracked pepper, naturally.

The French

Today, I go back to Tour de Crepes, a favorite of mine. I order the salmon crepe. Several crepes here are worth trying, but the salmon is the only one worthy of a shout out. Smoked salmon, dilled chèvre, spinach, and capers in a buckwheat flour crepe - delicious.

It's changed a bit in here since I've last graced this converted carriage house with my presence. [The kitchen is out back in an Airstream trailer. A little sketchy, but I'm not above food from a trailer.] They have new tables, I think. Other improvements have been made: a small vase of flowers now adorns each table, the heater has been turned to more efficiently warm the often chilly room, and the row of theater seats no longer are backed against the wall - a door is used as a coffee table in front of them. I love the worn pink furniture and the kitchen table [we sit there when we want to argue].

In a bold moment, I decide I will try the housemade vanilla bean custard. The flavor is nice, but the texture is grainy. No good! I send it back to the kitchen. She blends it for me and this is much superior. It's a bit runny, but I am sure it firms up when chilled. I like the little tiny crunch the vanilla bean brings.

I like the French music. The service here isn't particularly attentive, but help was found when I truly needed it. She helped me find out the name of the woman singing rich, glorious music through the stereo - and thus entered Madeleine Peyroux into my life. Sometimes I've eaten here completely alone. It is quite pleasant if that is what you are seeking.

Today is French Film Friday. I've never been, but I am charmed by the idea and wholeheartedly intend to show up by 7pm some Friday evening.

Valentine

I want to feed my man. I want to lean over and watch him take that first bite and see if he likes it. I want to delight him and impress him. If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I am right there. Long distance makes this difficult. I send him pictures of my lunch, pictures of my dinner, pictures of the groceries I am buying for tomorrow's dinner, but the poor guy isn't getting any of it. The time I send him beautiful chocolate cupcakes with ganache filling, he shows up at my door in Portland while they show up in his mailbox in San Diego. I am a woman on a mission. I cannot set steaming bowls of soup before him, but I will find a way.

When he returns to his mailbox five days later, he finds my cupcakes still in excellent condition. My baking isn't too shabby, and apparently I have mad packing skills.

Peace on Earth

It's a rotten day. To explain would be to relive and to relive would make me miserable. It's just one of those days. Ironically, all the troublesome events of my day occur while making World Peace Cookies. I shape them into logs and wrap them in plastic. They relax in the fridge for three hours - I sulk. I want to drive fast and listen to loud music.

At the gas station, I reply to a cheerful "how are you?" with a sullen, "good." He hands me a sesame cookie with my receipt. I want to be much angrier than I am. I drive to the top of Rocky Butte before heading off again to my original destination.

I walk into Dorene's kitchen to hear the tail end of Happy Birthday sung over the telephone. I'm not ready for a Bible study, but that's why I'm here.

I was asked to come with something to say, but I have nothing besides a bad attitude and World Peace Cookies. [I slice them as admirers look on. They come out of the oven just as they should: warm, salty, melting, sweet. My cookies are adored (Holly asks for the recipe).]

My eyes are salty, my heart is melting, my soul is warm, my friendships sweet. The High Priest was Himself sacrificed, His blood sprinkled at the temple!


I apologize when I return home.

Delicious

This is my experience in food.