The radishes out in the garden started waving their red little bottoms in the air, so I decided it was high time to dig ‘em up. As I was loading this, first harvest of the summer into a basket I beamed like a proud parent, and excitedly (and morbidly, a bit like Saturn and his child) imagined all the ways I was going to cook them.
A salad? No, too pedestrian, and their so large ‘n woody this year. Grilled? Could be. Simmered with some turnips? How Roman Legion-esque. Maybe with just a bit of honey and some thyme. Oh yeah, I know just the recipe, and it’ll look great when I post it on the food blog…
That’s when I realized that I’d already done all this before. I’d thought these thoughts. Cooked this recipe and thrown it up on the blog. The Matrix had reset! A year had passed. Read More
Food has always been intrinsically tied to memory in my mind. I, for whatever reason, tend to recall good eats very clearly and use those moments almost like landmarks in the warped geography of my memories. People who share in my passion for food, who sit at the same table during a great meal, or go on food-related adventures with me get etched in my memories pretty deeply. This goes for people I cook with every day as well as with people I spent sporadic bits of time with… Like my Uncle Wayne.