Last Monday, I returned from a longish trip
through central Europe. I say "central" because I mistakenly referred
to the Czech Republic as eastern Europe. I was promptly corrected by
my cousin, who is spending her semester abroad in Prague and has
clearly been brainwashed by the culture police. In the name of
sensitive tourism, I relented. On the food front: Above is a photo of smazheny seer (fried cheese
in a white bun with mayonnaise, like a cheese po' boy), which was
recommended to me by my New York Press editor, an ex-Prague
ex-pat who advised (now I know why) that I get drunk before eating it.
Clearly I wasn't drunk enough, because the "smazheny" more closely
resemebled deep fried chewing gum than a mozzarella patty. In the name
of culture, I ate most of it anyway.
I just returned from a weekend with my
parents, sister, and her boyfriend in the Berkshires (Massachusetts
side). NB: If I continue to blog about my "life" as opposed to
impersonal subjects, you will begin to notice a trend: I will write a
lot about my mother's cooking. Interpret this as you will: grown up
mama's girl? Bacholerette lifestyle, i.e. fridge full of condiments,
eats her best home-cooked meals when visiting the parents? Both are not
as far from the truth as they ought to be at this stage in my life.
Anyway... back to the food. We went to Tanglewood this afternoon for a program that included
Mahler and Joshua Bell on violin. I should have saved my senses for the
music (it was lovely) but I had spoiled myself by gorging on
pre-concert al fresco lunch on the lawn. We've been going to Tanglewood
since I was less than a year old (as my mom sentimentally recalled
today) but as a family, we only recently got our sh*t together on the
picnic front, and now bring those perfect meals I used to envy others
for having. Of course, it was my indefatigable mother
(a cook) who threw it all together. Grilled marinated boneless chicken
thighs, a salad (avocado, cucumber, radish, snow peas, parsely, feta
and about a dozen other ingredients), roasted red peppers and
eggplant, goat gouda and a perfect French bleu whose name eludes me
(sorry) with baguette and some sauvignon blanc. (Although I
still return home for food and pampering, I am old enough to drink with the folks and not have it be "cool".) For dessert? A cold peach crostada, and half-nap under the rustling Lenox leaves. And yes, the music.
So, the last question I posed, in the last
blog I posted so many moons ago, was who will I got to Roses with for
my (hopefully) phenomenal trip to El Bulli (yet to come). I toyed with
the idea of taking a man (how perfectly romantic...in theory). But the
man I was dating joined the annals of history in January, and necessity
forced me to have an even better idea. I'm taking my mom. My mother taught me everything I know about food, and primed my
palate (and irrational passion for cuisine) throughout my childhood.
She remains (and not for sentimental reasons, like other so-called
"excellent cook" mothers), the maker of some of the most sublime,
surprising, and soul-feeding meals I have eaten. (If you're in
Massachusetts, she might take you in--Mom is that nice). My dumb-luck reservation at El Bulli is on April 25. Guess who's
turning 60 on May 1? That's right. So, I'm renting an apartment near
the Boqueria market in Barcelona for nine days, and my mother and I
will have a Thelma and Louise style adventure. Or maybe not. But we
will delight in what will hopefully be an enriching, life-affirming,
and absolutely delicious several days in Spain.
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