This was my first ever cookbook. My lonesome self picked up a copy after watching this guy named Jeff Smith and his HOTTIE little chef-friend Craig cook on PBS. My family and I had just moved to Salt Lake. I had no friends. So I played in the kitchen.
As promised, here are a few images of the fragrant Buddha's Hand. As part of the Menu for Hope, I'm putting up some homemade marmalade. You can read more about the cause here. Simple, I know. But considering the deadlines, shopping, cooking, and partying ahead, I've gotta be level-headed about my abilities.
It's easy to get caught up in daily life. Bloggers especially. We're passionate. We're obsessed. All on top of hectic and jam-packed lives. But from a quiet corner, a home office, or the general peace of a house full of activity, we share.
I've always had this habit of playing with my food. Oh, it was never a question of whether I would eat it—not a bite would be left on my very large plate. But not until I had constructed a reality for the portrait in the mashed potatoes. A purpose for the impromptu puddy of pulverized short-grain rice between my fingers. And even in adult life, a sub-conscious Freudian slip at the table, involving a slice of raspberry cheesecake eaten down to a solitary tower and flanked by two rosettes of whipped cream.
More recently though, a trip to the patisserie sparked the latest inspiration for mental play. The kind that you reserve for gazing at the clouds and sky. A phalanx of petite croissants four deep in the case stared me down with their buttery sheen.
There are two Utah food bloggers lurking in the blogosphere. And over the weekend, we joined forces over some delicious Thai cuisine and discussed all things blog. One of us thought, "wouldn't it be fun if we posted the same photos and gave clues about the other and have folks figure out who the two Utah bloggers are?"
I didn't exactly blend growing up in the Jell-O belt. Among the amazonian Scandinavian descendants at Bonneville Junior High, I stuck out like one big California-transplanted thumb. "Mongolian eye-lids" and all. When the hormones kicked in and boys and girls started to take more notice of each other, I was hard pressed to find a fella who didn't laud me for my "exotic" looks. Don't give me credit, buddy. I wasn't even trying. The few Asians that were around periodically flocked together. And in disgust, we dubbed the exclusive attraction for us "exotic" ladies as the "Asian Persuasion."
A decade later, I'm happy to say that I've called out several dates on being fetishists with this two-word power term. And now, I can finally (happily) apply it to something not dating-related. Sometimes I like food more than men anyway.
Thanksgiving comes and goes. And I eat well. Too well. With each passing of this third Thursday of November, I always manage to forget an oath of moderation. I've developed a two-parter to the celebration. Lunch with the family followed by a walk in the park with a loveable, albeit retarded (pure-bred, that's why) golden retriever. Then off to dinner/cocktails with friends who've managed to wriggle out of more family commitments.