Hey, readers.
Well, we've moved to Brooklyn. Bushwick to be precise. Downside?
We don't have a stove.
Let me elaborate: We have a stove, we have a brand spankin' new kitchen. We just don't have gas for the stove. This means that we've been eating pizza and salads for about two weeks now.
It's killing us.
So soon, we should have our gas turned on, and will be cooking up a storm and we'll show you our new kitchen and hopefully the pictures will be AWESOME now.
Sorry for the lack of posts.
From May 29th, 2008:
The sun is shining today, the world is new. It's springtime in New York.
I believed for the longest time that this was the greatest city in the world. I still do, to some extent. My friends are here. My bars. My food places. Ziggiz, on Twenty-Fifth and Third. Bread Tribeca on Church. Paquitos in the Kip's Bay. The Beer Garden down the street from my apartment. Carmine's Pizzeria on Graham Ave. in Brooklyn. Ditmars Gyro Place, the Neptune Diner, Sparrow. All places that have colored my culinary world.
These are a few of the stories of my eatings and drinkings.
I took Hannah to Bread Tribeca last year for her birthday. It was a nice day, all day. By the time we'd dressed and gotten from Astoria, Queens all the way to Tribeca in Manhattan, it had gotten a little gray. Once there, we sat outside, because it was just warm enough to eat outside and wasn't too humid or too cool. It was just right. I told her not to worry about cost, because this was her birthday and it was my treat.
Oh, and she had to pick the wine, because I don't know shit about wine. I still don't.
Those were the only caveats. The caveats of freedom.
She ordered a pear salad, a pasta with spicy tomato sauce. I had an onion, cucumber, tomato and toast salad with a vinaigrette and for dinner, I had pappardelle bolognese. The wine? I couldn't tell you, but I'll be damned if it wasn't fabulous and totally worth the $30 we paid for it (we usually spend at most, $10 on wine. I splurged one day and got "Frontier Red" by Fess Parker of DAvy Crockett fame. It wasn't very good and I was out $14.07. At 15% alcohol, it got me good and snookered. Put a crimp in attempt #2 to read Paradise Lost, though.)
After our dinner, we sat and talked and did out best to finish the bottle of wine that we had bought and thought, "Why not have dessert?"
She had a gelato with flaming strawberries and I had tiramisu (I'm a tiramisu fiend and will take it any way I can get it.). After we ordered out sweets, it began to sprinkle. A bit of rain here and there. Being a bit concerned for our safety and for the safety of our bottle of wine, we requested to be put inside. Our waitress, a delightfully foreign girl from where she originated, what her accent sounded like or what her name was, only that she was delightful and possibly the best waitress that we've had in the city, told us not to worry at all, that she would bring our desserts to us and that we ought to get inside immediately!
Not five minutes later, the skies opened up and dropped piles of water all over Manhattan. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, cutting through the sound of traffic. There we were, slightly fuzzy, warm, dry and filled with the best food either of us has ever had. The desserts came and we ate them happily and with much pleasure.
Every Sunday, I would don my green army-style jacket, grab a comic book (for the longest while, it was the Sin City series that I was re-reading) and walk down to the Neptune, six blocks away. Being on my own, the hosts knew me, not my name, but by look and pointed me in the direction of the counter, in spite of arriving after a pile of church-going Greeks. I would sit down, begin to read my comic book and wait for my waiter. I didn't need to look at the menu. I knew exactly what I wanted: Waffles with a side of Sausage and a cup of Diner Coffee.
I would get through most of an episode in the comic book before my waffle would come. At its worst, it was a rock hard, overdone pastry, pocked with craters. At its best, it is bready, soft, sweet, with a hint of vanilla. Either way, it was the romance of a young man alone in the world. Those Hemingway moments that every young man has when he walks into a bar, or a restaurant, or a greasy spoon and knows that everything is going to be alright. This is the start of an adventure.
I would read and eat, my waffle swimming in too much butter and high fructose corn syrup, the heroes swimming through a hail of gunfire and dames, receiving far more punishment than any human being could or should. Beside me, I'd see old men, alone, eating their omelettes, silently conversing with their dead wives and regretting not having the courage to die when their mates did. I would see Long Island men filling their t-shirts with an equal portion of fat and muscle; the image of what a man is, and possibly ought to be. They smell vaguely of cigarettes and vanished dreams but laugh because, if nothing else, life is good. Behind me a slightly overweight girl ordered a shortstack of pancakes to go. My waiter asked her if she wanted bacon and inevitably the answer was yes.
They were good Sundays; mingling with the people and the city in which I live.
Today Sundays are better.
The first year I lived in Astoria, the first month in fact, I was one of many victims of The Great Queens Blackout of 2006. Today, it's mostly forgotten and the residents of Astoria barely mention it, but for a whole week, the residents of Astoria were without power. Not even the stove would light.
It had been so hot at Laguardia that the copper under the streets through which, flowed the life-giving power of the Borough melted, cutting off power to Astoria and Sunnyside. Knowing that it was that hot, you should understand what I was going through. Hot. Humid. Sticky and dark. I had no food that could be cooked. I could not get a shower. I could not do anything past 8pm.
For. A. Week.
Our 24-hour grocery store provided me with little reprieve. I would go just to experience the air conditioning and to get candles (because I was late to the store, I didn't get any plain candles and to this day, we have a St. Michael The Archangel candle in our collection. I also have 8 white candles that will serve in a pinch.). One night, I tried to write in the dark and drink Guiness Extra Stout.
The beer was as dark as the night, which ceased both writing and drinking.
I was working for a company called IAG Research, a company that studies product placement in television, which meant that I worked from 5:30pm to question mark. This meant I spent all day sweltering and sweating in my apartment (thankfully I lived in the basement, which made it cooler, but not by much) and then at night, went to work, unable to take a decent shower. the wednesday of the blackout, I decided that if I got out of work early enough, I wouldn't go home. I would go to a bar, somewhere far away and drink all night.
After my last show, I traveled south, to a place called Antarctica. It was appropriate. I was in the midst of a heat wave/blackout. A place called Antarctica would be the best place for a fella like me to cool off. And besides, I'd been there a week or two before and the bartender was an Aussie with tight clothes, blue eyes and dark hair. Being single and having all the hubris that this entails, I went back to drink, write a little and look at a pretty bartender.
The bartender I remembered wasn't there but another one was. I bellied on up and ordered a Guiness, sat and drank and wrote an adventure story for another girl whom I have never met. The ceiling was pressed tin and the mirror older than my father. Classic jukebox music played and the faux-pauvre played pool to AC/DC.
The bartender asked me where I was from and I told her Astoria and that I didn't want to go home. "See, I haven't had power in four days and I really don't want to go home," I said. She said she had heard about it and, out of pity, my fourth beer was on her (generous, yes. She let me pay for all my sorry drowning beers. she just fitted them with concrete boots).
I rebuffed an invitation to join five other people at the end of the bar, potential friends and I regret that I didn't hang out. I should have; it would be nice to have bar friends. Afterwards, I left the bar, a nice buzz going and completely forgetting that I had not left a tip for my last beer.
I remembered the next morning. To say that I remembered is a little misleading. I bolted up in bed with a generous headache, the vaguest sense that I had been poisoned and screamed, "I didn't tip the bartender!"
That afternoon, before I went to work, I went back to the bar, all the way down on the Spring Street stop of the C train, in the pouring rain, to take a tip that I owed her. When I got there, it was jumping with the Thirsty Thursday crowd. The man behind the bar looked at me and said, with a British accent, "What'll you have, mate?"
"The bartender that was here last night? Is she here?"
"Nah. She's off. What can I gitcha?"
"Nothing. I have to go to work," I said sopping and dripping on the floor. "I forgot to tip her so I wanted to bring it to her today." I put six dollars on the bar, my wet fingers staining the money. HE looked at it, then me, in disbelief. I turned and walked out the door. Whatever he said to me was lost beneath the din of commercial hip-hop.
I don't remember her name or even what she looked like, but I hope she got my six dollars.
There are food stories everywhere. These are only a few of mine. There are no pictures to post, but I assure you, they are more vivid in my mind than any camera could capture.
It is easy to feel poor in New York. Impoverished, inferior, inadequate, and unhealthy are all words that come to mind to describe what I frequently feel in this city.
Circumstances that are completely unrelated to this blog took me to Bloomingdale's in a last minute attempt at finding a dress that I should have purchased months ago for a wedding I had known about for quite some time. As Matthias and I stood paralyzed on the escalators, unable to ascend past the fifth floor, for fear of being accosted and interrogated based entirely upon our ragamuffin appearances, he turned to me and said, 'Do you know what else has 9 levels? Hell.'
Ordinarily, I would be hard pressed to find an inkling of truth in Dante, but I found myself wishing that people that purchased merchandise from the 9th (and presumably, the most expensive) floor should be frozen in ice for all of perpetuity like the other great giants and evil doers of the Divine Comedy, although I am inclined to assume that surely their hearts must be already.
As we stepped off of the escalator to make one final and desperate sweep through the fourth floor, I said to Matthias, 'The only thing that could make me feel better right now is a chocolate hazelnut cookie.' And truly, they are so rich that you will forget all about how senseless it seems to spend so much money on a dress that may be worn only twice (I do love it, so it will probably get more wear than that, but to be completely frivolous, it had two intended uses, both for weddings).
The good people at Gourmet gave me the most precious gift in their April issue: pages upon pages filled with recipes, photographs, and anecdotes on Italy. I will wax on and on about my deep and abiding love for the time I spent there and how I yearn to return in a different post, because this is about feeling rich when you're not, about escaping into flavors, and about knowing that no matter how poor and destitute and alone you may feel, it is the best feeling in the world to know that even if you don't have someone wonderful to stand at your side and make literary references, you will always have these perfectly simple, but simultaneously overwhelming cookies. 
Chocolate Hazelnut Spiced Cookies
adapted from Gourmet, April 2008
Ingredients
1.5 cups hazelnuts, toasted whole
.75 cups sugar (organic and fairly traded, please)
.5 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
.5 cups unsweetened cocoa (not Dutch process, and same request as sugar)
1 tsp. baking soda
.75 tsp. salt
.5 tsp. cinnamon
.125 tsp. ground cloves
3 tbsp. cold, organic unsalted butter
1 tbsp. orange zest
3 tbsp. orange juice
.5 tbsp. pure vanilla extract*
.5 tbsp. Kahlua*
For Icing (yes, there is icing! But I am not convinced that it is entirely necessary. These cookies are jaw-droppingly rich without it. But if you're feeling particularly indulgent or impecunious, please ice them. You won't regret it)
.5 cups confectioner's sugar
.5 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
3 tbsp. water
.5 tbsp. pure vanilla extract
.5 tbsp. Kahlua
Procedure
Toast hazelnuts at 325 for about 10-15 minutes and maintain 325 degrees for the cookies
Lightly butter a baking sheet
When they have cooled, rub the skins off of the hazelnuts with a kitchen towel
Pulse nuts in the food processor until they have reached a medium-fine consistency
Combine sugar, flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, and cloves
Add hazelnuts to mixture and combine with wooden spoon
Add the cold, cubed butter and the orange zest and mash with a fork or pastry cutter until the butter is broken into pea-sized lumps
Add the orange juice and liqueur(s) and mix with the wooden spoon until just combined
Form into teaspoon sized balls (you really will be satisfied with a cookie this size. I would strongly caution against making them larger).
Bake for 12-15 minutes, or until tops are cracked and slightly crisp to the touch. They will firm up on the cooling rack.
While cookies cool, wisk together ingredients for the icing and dip the tops of the cookies into it (or spoon it on with a teaspoon, if you want to make less of a mess)
Allow iced cookies to rest 1 hour**
Keep, layered between parchment or wax paper in an airtight container for about 4 days and are best enjoyed with milk. 
*The original recipe calls for 1 tbsp. of Frangelico liqueur, but we are not really cocktail enthusiasts and I really could not justify buying a special bottle for cookies, so I used what we had and it worked quite well.
**These cookies really do get better with time. We liked them better the second and third days better than that first night. We wish the same for the marriages that spawned my dress buying panic.
There comes a time when you have to just suck it up and admit that you are a foodie. This is usually the exact time you make French pork steaks with pickles and capers, and a roasted cauliflower.
You see, we are a pair of foodies. Yes. We are. Foo. Deez.
And I will eat anything.
She eats vegetables.
I love bacon.
She doesn't so much.
(She's eating Paul Newman's Own Cinnamon Grahams. I really think she ought to give those back to him. He's an old man, for Christ's sake.)
The story of how we came to be is vastly fascinating and not really the point of this blog. The Point of this blog is to show you that a perfectly right thinking person (me) can eat at the same time as a not-quite-so-right-thinking person (her) and you can do it pretty easily. And we're going to show off our recipes and we're going to probably show off some pictures.
Really awesome.
We're also going to pop up some links ot our favorite food blogs and sites. For now, here are the people who inspire us in the kitchen:
Orangette.
Jamie Oliver.
Smitten Kitchen.
Alton Brown.
The Urban Vegan.
Tastespotting.
Check them out. say hello. Read their recipes.
Soon, we will have some awesome recipes. And some awesome pictures. And some awesome banter between a meatosaur and a veggiesaur.
Oh yeah. And it's all as organic as we can make it.
