For eight years now I’ve been coming to Palm Springs for spring vacation with my husband and daughter. It’s a pretty swell set-up as my parents spend the entire month of March in PS at a house they rent in the Deepwell section of town, and we invite ourselves along.
Though there’s a decent amount of things to do in the area, we tend to turn into pool-dwelling, sun-worshipping (we do live in Oregon after all), trashy-book reading sloths. When we do bust out of our routine it’s usually to the mini-golf range where my mother is known to throw tantrums and my husband does creative score-keeping.
Yesterday I decided to get my mother and nine-year-old daughter out of the house. First stop, Cheekys, for a mind-blowingly good breakfast. I had not only the eggs benedict with poached eggs, braised arugula and bacon on a cheesy biscuit, but also a buttermilk corn blueberry pancake. This pancake was easily the most delicious pancake I’ve ever eaten. The corn part of the cake was kernels of corn in the batter, and it added an incredible texture. I’m right now thinking of getting up and heading there.
After waddling out of breakfast, we went searching for desert wildflowers. Specifically the hairy sand verbena. What better way to spend a morning than driving down dirt roads in the desert trying to spot a small, fuzzy plant. We understood from the local paper that this is primo wildflower season, and my mother was key to see all of the purpley widlflowers. Of course we found only yellow wildflowers that looked to be more in the weed category. This incredibly cool three-pronged yellow sunburst was discovered by my mother though, and I do think it was a find.
Though it is only 20 or so days til spring and we have had an entire Olympics since Punxsutawney Phil did or didn’t see his shadown, NYC is crippled by a late winter storm. This makes trying to get out of town panic-attack inducing. My phone’s vibrate function is now nearly broken from two days of text messages about flight delays and cancellations. The latest crippled buzz: another cancellation.
This inconvenience buys 26 more hours in NYC. On most days of the years, this would be more like a lucky treat, than a major inconvenience. But when it’s impossible to get a cab and walking to the subway is through more snow than the nordic combined track has in Vancouver, you start to think strategically.
The way my mind works is to think about proximities. Where do I want to spend a long, isolated winter day where the most that is asked of me is if I would like another beer? Easy answer. The ultra-cozy and ultra-satisfying Diner in Brooklyn. So I call a friend who lives across the street there and is conveniently out of town for work. I move into his killer apartment and start planning my lunch and dinner at Diner and be ultra thankful for the kindness of friends.
Six 16 0z bottles of oil later, these russet French fries and this buttermilk fried chicken (thanks to Thomas Keller’s Ad Hoc at Home cookbook) were served up to me by my husband for my birthday dinner. So insanely delicious, so ridiculously indulgent, this seemed more like a Last Meal than a Birthday Meal.
I’m going to H. E. double tooth picks, but it was so worth it. My most recent eating offense was when I learned about the Neapolitan specialty—the sfogliatella riccia, which exists somewhere between a croissant, a strudel, and a caramelized potato chip. This orgasmic pastry is made of thousands of layers of hand-pulled dough and baked around sweetened ricotta cheese flavored with cinnamon, limoncello and bits of candied citrus. Eating one piques all of the sensations. The dough is extremely flaky, better yet crispy, but as your teeth reach the rich center the filling is like the most glorious cheese danish. Oh, and did I mention these are made fresh all day and served warm throughout Naples? It is a good thing I was only in Naples for one day.
My daily breakfast is fairly humdrum and ordinary (grapefruit, oatmeal, tea) but succinctly displays why I so love Heath Ceramics: clean-lined, simple yet brilliant pieces that make even a measly Monday morning meal worthy of a photo shoot.
Even though I dislike this song, it is hard to not hum “It’s a Small World After All” while walking around downtown Portland during lunchtime. For a town often described as Honkeyville USA, the cart scene is undeniably diverse and multicultural. Add to the mix the economic downturn, where it is less risky to open a food cart than an actual restaurant, it makes for a burgeoning cart world offering some of the best eats going. One of the finest is the fairly new Nong’s Khao Man Ghai at SW 10th and Alder.
Nong serves one dish only, Khao Man Gai, not because she is lazy, rather because it kicks some serious butt. This Thai street food specialty is simple: a perfectly steamed chicken breast, tender and juicy, on a bed of scented rice served with a small cup of delicate broth and winter squash soup. Wrapped in white butcher paper with a side of soy, ginger and garlic sauce, your lunch arrives literally looking like a birthday present. And what a gift! The flavors are subtle yet punchy—the combination is perfectly balanced. If this is the food they eat in Thailand everyday, thank goodness it is a small world.
I’m not a natural chef, but I am a spaz, and to undiscerning eyes, the two can look awfully similar. For instance, I simply cannot be bothered to measure. I pull things out of the fridge—random things—and I cut them to my whim and I throw them in, or mix them together, or hurl some cheese on top and it looks an awful lot like confidence. Maybe it is at some level, I’ve eaten in scores of great restaurants (thanks, eat.shop) and maybe I’ve picked up a thing or two. But basically, it comes down to this. If your ingredient list includes some of the following: copious butter, garlic, cheese, and salt, the tasty will follow.
Yet recently, I was moved by a recipe to try it. It was a rainy Sunday, perfect for cooking, so I tackled a New York Times mag recipe, Moroccan Tomato Soup (http://tiny.cc/NZC7d). I was equipped with fresh garlic and tomatoes from my local farmer’s market and was ready to go.
It was good, very good. Needed more butter.
http://www.vimeo.com/5280804
Way back when I thought I would have a new website in like February, I wrote this post. Since I still think about Hot Doug’s daily, I figure it’s worthwhile to throw this up even though it’s now burning, crispy hot in the Windy City. Here’s the original post: It was a stinking cold Thursday in Chicago. I was in town working on the iPhone apps, and visiting my brother along with my Mother and daughter Lola. When it’s 10 degrees out, where’s the best place to go to lunch? Hot Doug’s of course, because you are guaranteed a wait in line. You may be wondering, are there heaters while you wait? People… this is Chicago, what do you think? So strangers are huddled together asking themselves “why are we waiting in this stinking long line?” Because it’s a duck fat fries day, that’s why. Sure the dogs here are good. But the duck fat fries are legendary. The combination of hypothermia and the delight of these fries (and the cheesy fries) is what has my brother David (shown here) lose his professorial cool and act like Jerry Lewis.