I don't know how I've managed to fall in love far more easily with cookbooks than with fiction, but I suppose it's because a good cookbook -- the kind I like -- manages to integrate the best elements of each. To me, it is the loveliest two-in-one, like being at a dinner party and enjoying both the meal and the company. You are greeted with a moving, terrific story, and instead of leaving it at that, you are met with a recipe so that the stories may continue, each stemming from that original, lovely story.
I rarely buy books. I was ordered to get rid of most of them prior to my move from Windsor to Toronto and I've tried to keep my collection modest and limited only to the ones I've loved, the ones I use and the ones I've been given by special people. Despite this, I still have plenty, and I'd like to think one day I will have enough space to house a small library and shelve my favourites. However, I bought Tamar Adler's An Everlasting Meal: Cooking with Economy and Grace, and I'm glad I did. It's a wonderful read. Everyone who reads it says that. It's not a glossy, full-colour cookbook filled with a lot of mediocre recipes. Instead, it guides you. Adler helps you along, showing you how to make stock, how to make the most of leftover brines and juices. It's about stretching food, not only to save money, but so that you truly appreciate the value of your food.
Tamar Adler is a former editor of Harper's Bazaar magazine and has cooked at esteemed restaurants Prune, Chez Panisse, and Farm 255.
What follows is one of my favourite excerpts from the book and rather representative of the content.
"We have different loves. Mine are food and words. Others' are how buildings slant away from dark sidewalks, or how good it feels to solve an equation. I say: Let yourself love what you love, and see if it doesn't lead you back to what you ate when you loved it.
It helps me to think of meals I've cooked or eaten before, if not for the food, for the light in the room or in the sky when I ate. What the light looked like, or what music was playing. It doesn't take more than my opening a window, head lifted to the air, for the sound of glass against a marble table, or the rustle of the wind to remind me that I've sat at marble tables outside, drunk out of glasses, listened to their light clatter on the table, noticing a rustling wind.
I may not remember what I ate, or whether it was the lunch where I realized I do not like black pepper to have been ground before I use it, or the one where I spilled water in my lap, but I will remember how the day felt on my face, and my creative soft self will have been awakened. So I listen hard. I listen with purpose of remembering. And this digging into sounds and into days I have heard and felt roots future meals in the unchangeable truths of past ones.
Let smells in. Let the smell of hot tarmac in the summer remind you of a meal you ate the first time you landed in a hot place, when the ground smelled like it was melting. Let the smell of salt remind you of a paper basket of fried clams you ate once, squeezing them with lemon as you walked on a boardwalk. Let it reach your deeper interest. When you smell the sea, and remember the basket of hot fried clams, and the sound of skee-balls knocking against each other, let it help you love what food can do, which is to tie this moment to that one. Then something about the wind off the sea will have settled in your mind, and carried the fried clams and squeeze of lemon with it."
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nostalgia. Show all posts
4.11.2012
2.21.2012
The past is a foreign country
The English writer Leslie Poles Hartley once said that "the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there." As I spent my evening reviewing old conversation exchanges between my graduate classmates a few years ago, I could feel myself light up again. Those years were like pages pulled from The Dead Poet's Society, students clambering around to order pints and debate wildly about literature and politics, global warming and human rights. I sat across the round kitchen table from my roommate, where we drank bottomless cups of coffee and tea and talked, quite literally, for hours. It's still like that. And I laughed a lot.
I've been back from Varadero for a week. Everything seems different though nothing has really changed. One cold afternoon -- cold for Cuba, at any rate -- my sister and I walked down to the beach clad in jeans and sweatshirts, while the ladies by the pool wrapped themselves up in rented beach towels, trying to soak up some sun without turning blue. She took a few shots and I waded calf-deep in the water as the waves lapped at my skin, the edges foaming up around my ankles like a poorly poured pint of beer. The air felt warmer down on the shoreline. As we dodged the higher waves and attempted to save the beached jelly fish, my defenses dissolved.
If you are a girl who stands at barely over five feet and can barely pass for eighteen on a good day and still fits easily into children's clothes, navigating the corporate world certainly presents a challenge. A few months into my role, my boss, over coffee, mentioned that I let people walk all over me and advised I become more assertive. But until I stood in the sand, now knee-deep in the gulf, I hadn't realized how far down that road I'd gone. How much of my spirit I'd compromised in trying to prove myself to others, in trying to defend myself. I traded my passion for academia for a steady job and a good paycheque, and while I've never regretted it, I do regret how cold I've become, how willing I am to keep people at arm's length. Back then, we were provocative dreamers and foolish and made mistakes. We taught classes with our tails between our legs and wrote our theses frantically, hoping our ideas would amount to something substantial. And I believed in the value of what were doing, in the beauty of it, even if its purpose was immaterial. Particularly because its purpose was immaterial.
If I took one thing away from Kerouac and Twain and Montgomery and Munro, it's that life is, at its very best, an adventure; even our geography shifts and moves with the years. The most wonderful thing about life, to me, is that we get to live our all of our years. We can indulge ourselves in a night of electrifying conversation with friends and family, feasting on great food and wine. We can eat street food in Vietnam or see the Taj Mahal or walk the shoreline of a beach in Cuba, deserted at the end of the day, trying to be as present as possible. Wondering what's in store for 2012.
"He regarded a country's food as the story of its people, its culture and its history, without which one couldn't hope to understand or report on a place," Catherine Collins writes of her stepfather, R. W. Apple Jr., in the Editor's Note of the exceptional Far Flung and Well Fed. He ate fish sandwiches and drank delicious bourbons and doused his biscuits with gravy; he sought out the best espresso Italy had to offer and remarks how the Triestines claim that the fish on their side of the Adriatic tastes better than the fish on the Venice side because the sea bottom near Trieste is rocky rather than sandy. I read the book on the beach that week while sipping on Johnnie Walker Red and savoured it, trying to keep the words on my tongue. He was a man who really lived, unabashedly, merging the past with the present and the future, some kind of time machine sandwich. As I flipped to the final page, I thought, yes, the past is a foreign country, and they do things differently there. And I'm glad I went back, because it has made me more present.
And cheesier. Obviously. Some things don't change.
I've been back from Varadero for a week. Everything seems different though nothing has really changed. One cold afternoon -- cold for Cuba, at any rate -- my sister and I walked down to the beach clad in jeans and sweatshirts, while the ladies by the pool wrapped themselves up in rented beach towels, trying to soak up some sun without turning blue. She took a few shots and I waded calf-deep in the water as the waves lapped at my skin, the edges foaming up around my ankles like a poorly poured pint of beer. The air felt warmer down on the shoreline. As we dodged the higher waves and attempted to save the beached jelly fish, my defenses dissolved.
If you are a girl who stands at barely over five feet and can barely pass for eighteen on a good day and still fits easily into children's clothes, navigating the corporate world certainly presents a challenge. A few months into my role, my boss, over coffee, mentioned that I let people walk all over me and advised I become more assertive. But until I stood in the sand, now knee-deep in the gulf, I hadn't realized how far down that road I'd gone. How much of my spirit I'd compromised in trying to prove myself to others, in trying to defend myself. I traded my passion for academia for a steady job and a good paycheque, and while I've never regretted it, I do regret how cold I've become, how willing I am to keep people at arm's length. Back then, we were provocative dreamers and foolish and made mistakes. We taught classes with our tails between our legs and wrote our theses frantically, hoping our ideas would amount to something substantial. And I believed in the value of what were doing, in the beauty of it, even if its purpose was immaterial. Particularly because its purpose was immaterial.
If I took one thing away from Kerouac and Twain and Montgomery and Munro, it's that life is, at its very best, an adventure; even our geography shifts and moves with the years. The most wonderful thing about life, to me, is that we get to live our all of our years. We can indulge ourselves in a night of electrifying conversation with friends and family, feasting on great food and wine. We can eat street food in Vietnam or see the Taj Mahal or walk the shoreline of a beach in Cuba, deserted at the end of the day, trying to be as present as possible. Wondering what's in store for 2012.
"He regarded a country's food as the story of its people, its culture and its history, without which one couldn't hope to understand or report on a place," Catherine Collins writes of her stepfather, R. W. Apple Jr., in the Editor's Note of the exceptional Far Flung and Well Fed. He ate fish sandwiches and drank delicious bourbons and doused his biscuits with gravy; he sought out the best espresso Italy had to offer and remarks how the Triestines claim that the fish on their side of the Adriatic tastes better than the fish on the Venice side because the sea bottom near Trieste is rocky rather than sandy. I read the book on the beach that week while sipping on Johnnie Walker Red and savoured it, trying to keep the words on my tongue. He was a man who really lived, unabashedly, merging the past with the present and the future, some kind of time machine sandwich. As I flipped to the final page, I thought, yes, the past is a foreign country, and they do things differently there. And I'm glad I went back, because it has made me more present.
And cheesier. Obviously. Some things don't change.
1.04.2012
Good luck pickles
I spent a sizeable portion of my childhood in the house
my great-grandfather built, where my Nan lived through the Depression, where my
father grew up on sardine sandwiches. When my sister and I were young we'd sit by the window in the entryway and watch as the cargo ships moved like slugs across the river. I haven't stepped foot in that house in years, but I remember the noise the wooden floorboards made against every step, the roar of the furnace, the sound of the off-key grand piano.
It's the place where I learned to paint with watercolours, ran amok through the cornfields with a few stray cats and picked wild apples, inspecting each one for worms. I grew my imagination on a large collection of old books with dusty hardcovers, listened to classical music and ate bologna sandwiches on white bread with yellow mustard and pickles. I snacked on sun-ripened rhubarb straight from the garden and observed as the Queen Ann's Lace came up annually, covering the estate in white flecks.
My Nan was not a good cook, but there's three things she made well: sausage rolls, which my father and I still mention nostalgically with a twinkle in our eyes; fruit salad; and, in my opinion, a combination of sliced field cucumbers and onions, gently pickled in a water, vinegar and sugar solution.
I can't say I was wild for onions, but those cucumbers were delicious. Perfectly crisp and tangy, they satisfied my deep-seated obsession for all things acidic. Perhaps you grew up on moist blueberry pancakes or peanut butter and jelly, but for me, among other notable things, it was pickles and fermented foods. A plate of olives at Christmastime. Someone's homemade pickled purple beets. Sweet pickled cucumbers, pickled cauliflower, pickled pearl onions. Tangy sauerkraut piled atop the crisp casings of a smoked bratwurst.
My adventures in pickling came about by accident, though in retrospect it hardly seems that way. While living in Tallahassee, my partner at the time and I would make the trek to Plant City every so often and stop at a stand with the best, most ridiculously inexpensive produce. I remember the ten pound bags of oranges and grapefruit, still green, and eating the first strawberries of the season one late February day, juice running down my face. And I remember the cucumbers -- field, English, mini -- abundant and cheap.
At first I pickled them as my Nan had done, sans sugar and onions, and snacked on them in the afternoons as I read novels, wrote articles, scanned through volumes about wine, and waited for work. I decided that if I was going to live south of the Mason-Dixon, I'd learn how to cook up a pot of cheesy grits, gorge on peel and eat shrimp slathered in melted butter, beach-comb for the prettiest shells while dodging the jelly fish, make sun tea, and figure out how to pickle cucumbers.
I first made this recipe a couple of years ago for Canadian Thanksgiving while I was living in the south. I put out a dish on a whim -- I liked them well enough, and having no other pickles, decided they'd work. Suffice to say, the dish vanished almost as if by magic. What I love is that I made them, and then a boyfriend of a good friend of mine made them, experimenting with hot peppers. I brought a jar to a dinner party I attended on New Year's Eve, where the host asked for the recipe.
I don't know that food is the great equalizer as they say -- I think it illustrates economic divide awfully powerfully, to be honest. But I do believe in the power of a recipe to connect us, in the practices that have the ability to unite us. In that recipe there's the girl who ran through cornfields at eight years old, who boarded a plane for another country, who moved to a city hoping for change. My recommendation for 2012: go with the gusto. Move to the rhythm of your own life, especially when it scares you. Keep your heart open: no one can enter a locked door. Don't try to own or control people; not much that's alive thrives in captivity. Be good to people, especially to those who are good to you. Make time for dinner, wine and conversation with loved ones. Try the recipes you've been handed. Visit your Nan. Laugh until your face hurts.
Happy New Year, dear readers.
Refrigerator Dills
Yields approximately 2 quarts, or 4 pint-jars
Headnote: I use a vinegar and water ratio of 1:1. This yields a pretty sour pickle. If you'd prefer less sour pickles, use 2 cups of vinegar and 4 cups of water here. Also, don't skip the steps leading up to the actual pickling; it's important you treat the cucumbers before you begin in order to end up with the best product.
You can serve these the day you make them, though I like them best after about 2-3 days in the refrigerator.
1.5lbs mini cucumbers
1 medium-sized pot
Glass jars/containers with lids (I use mason jars)
1. Soak your cucumbers, whole, in an ice bath for at least three hours to overnight. This helps crisp them up, especially if you're using older cucumbers from the supermarket.
2. Drain and dry the cukes and cover generously with a thick layer of kosher salt. This will help draw out any additional moisture.
3. Shake the salt off the cucumbers and slice, lengthwise, into fours.
4. Prepare your brine by adding the vinegar, water, mustard seeds, dill, and salt to the pot and bringing it to a boil. Once it begins to boil, lower the heat and simmer for another 2-3 minutes, allowing the flavours to meld together.
5. Rinse the jars in warm water to prevent cracking.
6. Pack the jars with the cucumber spears, adding about two cloves of smashed garlic per quart jar.
7. Carefully pour the hot brine over the cucumbers. I like to do this over the sink for obvious reasons.
8. Allow the brine to cool, cap, and refrigerate for at least six hours before consuming. Consume within 30 days (if they make it that long!)
It's the place where I learned to paint with watercolours, ran amok through the cornfields with a few stray cats and picked wild apples, inspecting each one for worms. I grew my imagination on a large collection of old books with dusty hardcovers, listened to classical music and ate bologna sandwiches on white bread with yellow mustard and pickles. I snacked on sun-ripened rhubarb straight from the garden and observed as the Queen Ann's Lace came up annually, covering the estate in white flecks.
My Nan was not a good cook, but there's three things she made well: sausage rolls, which my father and I still mention nostalgically with a twinkle in our eyes; fruit salad; and, in my opinion, a combination of sliced field cucumbers and onions, gently pickled in a water, vinegar and sugar solution.
I can't say I was wild for onions, but those cucumbers were delicious. Perfectly crisp and tangy, they satisfied my deep-seated obsession for all things acidic. Perhaps you grew up on moist blueberry pancakes or peanut butter and jelly, but for me, among other notable things, it was pickles and fermented foods. A plate of olives at Christmastime. Someone's homemade pickled purple beets. Sweet pickled cucumbers, pickled cauliflower, pickled pearl onions. Tangy sauerkraut piled atop the crisp casings of a smoked bratwurst.
My adventures in pickling came about by accident, though in retrospect it hardly seems that way. While living in Tallahassee, my partner at the time and I would make the trek to Plant City every so often and stop at a stand with the best, most ridiculously inexpensive produce. I remember the ten pound bags of oranges and grapefruit, still green, and eating the first strawberries of the season one late February day, juice running down my face. And I remember the cucumbers -- field, English, mini -- abundant and cheap.
At first I pickled them as my Nan had done, sans sugar and onions, and snacked on them in the afternoons as I read novels, wrote articles, scanned through volumes about wine, and waited for work. I decided that if I was going to live south of the Mason-Dixon, I'd learn how to cook up a pot of cheesy grits, gorge on peel and eat shrimp slathered in melted butter, beach-comb for the prettiest shells while dodging the jelly fish, make sun tea, and figure out how to pickle cucumbers.
I first made this recipe a couple of years ago for Canadian Thanksgiving while I was living in the south. I put out a dish on a whim -- I liked them well enough, and having no other pickles, decided they'd work. Suffice to say, the dish vanished almost as if by magic. What I love is that I made them, and then a boyfriend of a good friend of mine made them, experimenting with hot peppers. I brought a jar to a dinner party I attended on New Year's Eve, where the host asked for the recipe.
Happy New Year, dear readers.
Refrigerator Dills
Yields approximately 2 quarts, or 4 pint-jars
Headnote: I use a vinegar and water ratio of 1:1. This yields a pretty sour pickle. If you'd prefer less sour pickles, use 2 cups of vinegar and 4 cups of water here. Also, don't skip the steps leading up to the actual pickling; it's important you treat the cucumbers before you begin in order to end up with the best product.
1.5lbs mini cucumbers
3 cups distilled white vinegar (5%)
3 cups water
4 cloves of garlic, peeled and smashed with the back
of a knife
4 tsp brown mustard seeds
2 tbsp dried dill
2 tsp kosher salt, or to taste, plus more for
treating the cucumbers
Equipment:1 medium-sized pot
Glass jars/containers with lids (I use mason jars)
1. Soak your cucumbers, whole, in an ice bath for at least three hours to overnight. This helps crisp them up, especially if you're using older cucumbers from the supermarket.
2. Drain and dry the cukes and cover generously with a thick layer of kosher salt. This will help draw out any additional moisture.
3. Shake the salt off the cucumbers and slice, lengthwise, into fours.
4. Prepare your brine by adding the vinegar, water, mustard seeds, dill, and salt to the pot and bringing it to a boil. Once it begins to boil, lower the heat and simmer for another 2-3 minutes, allowing the flavours to meld together.
5. Rinse the jars in warm water to prevent cracking.
6. Pack the jars with the cucumber spears, adding about two cloves of smashed garlic per quart jar.
7. Carefully pour the hot brine over the cucumbers. I like to do this over the sink for obvious reasons.
8. Allow the brine to cool, cap, and refrigerate for at least six hours before consuming. Consume within 30 days (if they make it that long!)
11.16.2010
We remember
Having a day off in the middle of the week is nothing short of luxurious -- a walk down Bloor, the Holt Renfrew window displays already set up for Christmas. 2010 is almost over. I'm relieved in a way, but sad, too. This year has been split right down the middle, one side revealing heads and the other tales. A little girl walked behind me with her father tonight and debated whether it was raining or snowing. "It's snowing," she said. "Raining," he said. "Snow and rain," she said. "Snow with rain," he responded playfully. That sounds about right.
No, I relaxed on Remembrance Day. I sipped on peach juice as though I were eight years old, debating over bath towels. Peach juice reminds me of being at Colasanti, cider doughnut in one hand and peach juice in the other, apple picking in the fall. It has that kind of power, so be weary next time you opt for it. I heard they no longer make those doughnuts, and the peach juice is likely too sweet, but it makes me smile wide anyway. I bought a head of butter lettuce at my neighbourhood grocer and stared at a package of dried cherries for longer than was necessary wondering if it would be a very good idea to add them to my morning granola (delectable) or a very, very bad idea (another expensive staple to add to my increasing list of so-called must-haves.) I passed, but it seems nothing is ever too extravagant when it comes to breakfast around these parts, so don't be surprised if you find me spooning some into my cereal on some lofty morning. Local wild blossom honey? Fresh pecans? Cocoa nibs? Roasted ground cinnamon? The good yogurt? Whatever it takes to beck and call me out of bed at 7am makes me weak in the knees (and quick with the hands.)
I digress.
Despite enjoying Thursday -- both gorgeous and turbulent -- I've struggled with writing this post. Anything I have to say regarding Remembrance Day sounds forced and ultimately pretty trite. All I can do is tell you that it means something to me that it might not to someone else. When I see someone standing with a tray of poppies, my heart skips a beat and there I am, handing over a five spot. It means something that men and women died, that people went off to territory unknown and did so voluntarily or involuntarily, in defense of something as amorphous as freedom. And so I listened to Amos Lee and went for long walks and generally reflected in that way that keeps you up at night. It's that time again, between Halloween and Christmas, fully ambivalent. Not quite autumn anymore and not quite winter. It's a good time to go nostalgic, as far as I can tell.
I went back to my hometown this weekend in celebration of what would have been my great-grandmother's 100th birthday. I was six when she died, and don't remember much of her, but I do recall my mother dropping off her groceries with my sister and I in tow. There was never a shortage of jelly beans. I ate the orange and yellow ones as she doused her TV dinner in salt before tucking in, and she tried to convince me how great the black ones were. Now I'm the one eating black jelly beans.
In November, there are things to remember and memories to be made. We sat around the dinner table -- more of us around that table than there have been in years -- and ate like champs. Some of us drank like champs, too, but I, dear readers, was not one of those unlucky individuals who nursed hangovers the following day and forcefully denied it.
Walking through a graveyard, at least for me, means digging up bones and searching for ghosts. But in a way we're all still together around that table, except that some of us tread a little lighter and kindly leave the wine for the rest of us to imbibe.
Perhaps one of those graves is that of a little girl you never really got to know. When mentioned, it moves someone to tell you a story, one that you keep to yourself because it's one of those intimate stories so powerful it doesn't require repeating. But I can say that little girl is the prettiest of those ghosts because those still with us speak of her with a level of beautiful, heart-wrenching care and adoration you'd think stretches far beyond the human potential to love. And because they cannot remember us, we will remember for all of them.
Because I'm of a rye-drinking clan -- how Canadian! -- I'm handing over a classic recipe. The other is an old-timey kind of dessert that's been tinkered with, one that's simple and comforting -- two words totally necessary at this time of year.
Rye and Ginger
Yields 1 drink
1.5oz (rye) whisky
3oz gingerale (preferably made with cane sugar)
Lime wedge
Dash of bitters (optional)
Pour whiskey and gingerale over ice in a rocks or highball glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.
Bananas and Milk
Serves 1
1 frozen banana, sliced prior to freezing
Splash of milk
Combine banana and milk in a food processor or blender, and pulse until the banana takes on the look and mouthfeel of soft serve ice cream. Eat or serve immediately, garnished with nuts if desired.
No, I relaxed on Remembrance Day. I sipped on peach juice as though I were eight years old, debating over bath towels. Peach juice reminds me of being at Colasanti, cider doughnut in one hand and peach juice in the other, apple picking in the fall. It has that kind of power, so be weary next time you opt for it. I heard they no longer make those doughnuts, and the peach juice is likely too sweet, but it makes me smile wide anyway. I bought a head of butter lettuce at my neighbourhood grocer and stared at a package of dried cherries for longer than was necessary wondering if it would be a very good idea to add them to my morning granola (delectable) or a very, very bad idea (another expensive staple to add to my increasing list of so-called must-haves.) I passed, but it seems nothing is ever too extravagant when it comes to breakfast around these parts, so don't be surprised if you find me spooning some into my cereal on some lofty morning. Local wild blossom honey? Fresh pecans? Cocoa nibs? Roasted ground cinnamon? The good yogurt? Whatever it takes to beck and call me out of bed at 7am makes me weak in the knees (and quick with the hands.)
I digress.
Despite enjoying Thursday -- both gorgeous and turbulent -- I've struggled with writing this post. Anything I have to say regarding Remembrance Day sounds forced and ultimately pretty trite. All I can do is tell you that it means something to me that it might not to someone else. When I see someone standing with a tray of poppies, my heart skips a beat and there I am, handing over a five spot. It means something that men and women died, that people went off to territory unknown and did so voluntarily or involuntarily, in defense of something as amorphous as freedom. And so I listened to Amos Lee and went for long walks and generally reflected in that way that keeps you up at night. It's that time again, between Halloween and Christmas, fully ambivalent. Not quite autumn anymore and not quite winter. It's a good time to go nostalgic, as far as I can tell.
I went back to my hometown this weekend in celebration of what would have been my great-grandmother's 100th birthday. I was six when she died, and don't remember much of her, but I do recall my mother dropping off her groceries with my sister and I in tow. There was never a shortage of jelly beans. I ate the orange and yellow ones as she doused her TV dinner in salt before tucking in, and she tried to convince me how great the black ones were. Now I'm the one eating black jelly beans.
In November, there are things to remember and memories to be made. We sat around the dinner table -- more of us around that table than there have been in years -- and ate like champs. Some of us drank like champs, too, but I, dear readers, was not one of those unlucky individuals who nursed hangovers the following day and forcefully denied it.
Walking through a graveyard, at least for me, means digging up bones and searching for ghosts. But in a way we're all still together around that table, except that some of us tread a little lighter and kindly leave the wine for the rest of us to imbibe.
Perhaps one of those graves is that of a little girl you never really got to know. When mentioned, it moves someone to tell you a story, one that you keep to yourself because it's one of those intimate stories so powerful it doesn't require repeating. But I can say that little girl is the prettiest of those ghosts because those still with us speak of her with a level of beautiful, heart-wrenching care and adoration you'd think stretches far beyond the human potential to love. And because they cannot remember us, we will remember for all of them.
Because I'm of a rye-drinking clan -- how Canadian! -- I'm handing over a classic recipe. The other is an old-timey kind of dessert that's been tinkered with, one that's simple and comforting -- two words totally necessary at this time of year.
Rye and Ginger
Yields 1 drink
1.5oz (rye) whisky
3oz gingerale (preferably made with cane sugar)
Lime wedge
Dash of bitters (optional)
Pour whiskey and gingerale over ice in a rocks or highball glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.
Bananas and Milk
Serves 1
1 frozen banana, sliced prior to freezing
Splash of milk
Combine banana and milk in a food processor or blender, and pulse until the banana takes on the look and mouthfeel of soft serve ice cream. Eat or serve immediately, garnished with nuts if desired.
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