After a huge brekky Sunday morning at Skillet (more on that later this week), lunch was pretty much out of the question and even the burgers I'd planned on for…
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Recipes
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I've never been a super big fan of prosciutto, preferring instead the more bacon-like pancetta. Something about the texture, its sort of stretchiness and flavor just put me off. But lately, it's growing on me. (See the grilled pizza with prosciutto and arugula). When it's cooked just a little bit, prosciutto is an entirely different animal. And its saltiness is perfect in this baked pasta dish.
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Yesterday, while doing early morning yardwork, Wolf and I were talking about breakfast.
"You want me to go get doughnuts?" (An offer that's hard to refuse.)
"Mmm, doughnuts. I'm surprised you want doughnuts."
"I thought you might want doughnuts."
After this many years of marriage, yep, we still have these conversations. I'm not usually one to be lukewarm on doughnuts, especially Top Pot, but after a relatively light dinner last night, I thought, we need some real breakfast.25
Sometimes food is just not that pretty. I don't mean dishes that are carelessly slapped together and just look like slop. I'm talking about food that actually tastes great, but is just difficult to doll up without turning it into a hyper-styled Franken-dish. It's the food we eat and love, but not the food we aspire to. I'm thinking about this as the personal project I shoot for myself. Show real food in the best light possible. But pick subjects that are kind of ugly. This Hatch Chile Chicken Enchilada Casserole isn't a beauty in the sense that a pile of ripe heirloom tomatoes is, but it's real, it's homey and it is delicious.
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If you like coconut, there's almost no better use for it than macaroons. It's such a pure coconut experience, colored only by maybe a little almond extract or in my case, a good dose of lemon zest. But after spying this chewy chocolate macaroon recipe in Terry Walters' Clean Start, those pure thoughts went by the wayside. There seemed no reason not to go full bore, mixing in a good bit of chocolate, rather than just doing a dip.
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Hot off my blueberry picking this past weekend, you knew some blueberry recipes were coming soon to this here blog. If you've been reading the Waffle for a little while, you might know where I stand on muffins, which is, when it comes down to it, I'd rather have a donut over a muffin most of the time. But it's blueberry season, and these aren't really muffins -- they're more like blueberry coffee cake in an individual serving! (Are you buying this? Clearly I'm in denial). Oh, they might look like regular ol' blueberry muffins, but these little babies have a hidden secret.
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When I was in high school, my best friend from elementary school dated a guy called Farro. By that time, we went to different schools, so I only met him once and I think we had dinner at his family's restaurant. Maybe my memory isn't what it used to be, but I'm pretty sure Farro wasn't his real name, and now that I've made the grain, I'm dying to know how Farro ends up being your nickname. Is it a diminutive of something like Bobby is for Robert? Or are you just nutty? Are you hard-headed? I don't know. But unlike quinoa, which I find just ok (and not a good nickname), I like farro's heft. That chewy bite, even after 30 or 40 minutes of cooking, with a nutty flavor - I like it. And after this salad, I'm excited to try making a risotto -- a farrotto -- out of it.
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When I went to the farmers market on Saturday, I already had peach cobbler on the brain, so I picked up some beautiful Sweet Scarlet peaches from Tiny's Organic. They cost almost twice as much as the going rate at other stands, but it was worth it. Sweet Scarlet is a yellow-fleshed peach, and it's lower in acid, so you get the pretty color of a yellow peach with the sweetness of a white one. I swear the sign said they were freestones (the Internet appears to differ on that point), but when I got them home...they just weren't. Those little guys were clinging to their pits as if holding on for dear life.
And then I uttered what may be one of the saddest sentences spoken on a summer Sunday afternoon, second only to, "The grill is out of propane."
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