smokey ricotta

Smokey Ricotta had me curious. I'm not one for smoked cheese. I am one for Salvatore Brooklyn, and it's their new(er) creation.

Smokey Ricotta defies prior notions of smoked cheese.

Toasted marshmallow is more like it. I tasted it at Saxelby Cheesemongers, who sell it by the hearty-thwacked scoop.

Everyone has their own marshmallow roasting technique. I like to spin mine slowly on a spear, char it, and eat the outside -- the crackly roasted part. Then I immediately re-roast and repeat.

Salvatore's Smokey leaves the same effect on the palate -- Campfire. A backnote of smoke, sweet smoke, that doesn't knock one over with head-smoke or unpleasant chemical liquid-smoke notes.

The question I got from everyone who dipped into my pint was "What are people doing with it?"

To keep the Brooklyn in Brooklyn, I decided I'd make an open-faced 'smore* with this not-quite-sweet not-quite savory thing. And since Brooklyn is as Brooklyn does, borough it.

Shavings of a Mast Brothers chocolate bar

Atop Salvatore Brooklyn Smokey Ricotta

Upon Hot Bread Kitchen Lavash.


*When the Brooklyn-born move to Vermont, drizzling maple syrup on this will balance everything out.

melt

on a saturday
as the mountain melts to town
she makes crisp bacon

it's what's for dinner?

for obvious reasons, this article leaves me unsettled.

click on gertie. photo by jennifer may for the nyt.

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Carhartts

Along with the seasonal time change there's the light change that comes along with it. Here in Northern Vermont, heading up to the barn at five, for the three hours I'm there if I evening milk, the light outside is tinged with a purple and pink glows-- where it's not bathed in fog.

I was late. 5:03. 3 minutes late, and feeling horrible about it, I walk in to the barn. No amount of saying "fuck, fuck, fuck!" in my car as I white knuckled the dirt road to Laini's got me there any faster. This time of year the drive is as gnarly as the nubbed roads.

I was able to distract Laini from my lateness.

I had spent my day getting outfitted.

Last week Laini and Kate kept checking out what I was wearing. Kate thought maybe there'd be something around that I could wear over my clothes, but I didn't want to ask. I'd come up with a combination of old ski gear that was losing it's oomph on the hill - or on the flats. Yoko nordic-gloves have proven to be extremely udder-friendly.

I'd already invested in Muck boots, but it was the rest of me -- the parts that had to lean on the barn stalls and on the milking stand and on the goats themselves, the parts of me that were having to sometimes get a little dirty with what what my feet were protected from.

Let's just say I now know why certain boots are called "shitkickers".

If I've just taken my writing off the Church reading list, so be it.

Back at the barn, what I opted for held up.

What I'd set out for in the morning was coveralls. On a hot tip from a friend, I set out for Waterbury.

I guess these have gone out of fashion, or are just not a part of this season's line. The four storesI went to in three different towns had only a pair each -- and the smallest was Men's size 48. None of them stocked the "ladies" version, which I didn't know existed until store #2.


Knowing that I shouldn't show up back at the barn without some more sensible attire, I was on a mission to figure this out. At store #1, I'd already come up with the overall option, seeing that Carhartt made a smart pair for my tasks.


I knew from seeing some guys at Martha's and at the hardware store in Lowell, just North of Lazy Lady, that all of these options came in padded or not. I wasn't sure what I wanted. But at store # 2, in Waitsfield, I had three different salespeople helping me and giving me advice, while I was eyeing all these other cool Carhartt items in the surrounding racks.



I'm not including the above vest on my wish list, but it was the first unnecessary item that caught my attention. Just as I was thinking "that would look cute on me", I realized it was because a boyfriend or two had the same one, and I did not need to own this. I thought I may have even worn this, after Pink Floyd, cold and leaving Nassau.






But then I remembered it was this.






And it wasn't walking the parking lot. This is what the guy who slept next to me lent me while we waited on line overnight for the tickets in Midtown Manhattan. The corner of 57th and 3rd, even in June, makes for a really cold night, even if you're in a tent. My line-mate was convinced we were getting 4th row. I got 11th.


This jacket has kept me warm a few times since. Guys who like music like this jacket. The next one I wore was of the boy who taught me to love AC/DC and the Allmans.

I drift, but Carhartt did help take my mind off my sorrows yesterday. At another time in my life, and in the life of our nation's economy, you could say I was partaking in shop therapy.


Yesterday, I did not get tickets to phish Merriweather. With three computers, two phones, and six friends and relatives on the task, it did not happen.


So in Waitsfield, not knowing that Carhartt had gotten so racy and high-fashion, I make a note of some things I want to and can buy.

I was two hours' drive from work, and losing time. Driving south hadn't been the smartest idea, but neither was putting what I'd seen and thought I wanted on special order. I loved this color.

They call it sandstone. I call it khaki. No one had it in my size, and really, it wasn't lined, which by store #3, also in Waitsfield, I'd realized made sense. My upperbody and hands stay warm from all the activity, but my legs tend to get a little stiffer and colder.

I gave up and headed north. I knew I could stop in Morrisville, and did, and I hit the jackpot. Literally.

Store # 4, Caplan's, had discountinued ladies' chocolate brown bibs, lined, size 10.

You will have to channel the image for now.

They rock.

At the till at Caplan's, they have you pick out of a bucket, choosing from hundreds of colored slips of paper, to get a discount.

$74.96. And I'm pretty sure these are going to last.

breakfast in bed

I am still the girl, sitting on the floor of our kitchen on East 56th Street, my mom sleeping late with a baby in her belly, my dad cooking up "breakfast in bed" on the stove.

If you asked me to tell the greatest joy of my childhood, (besides jumping off a slow, low chairlift at Mount Snow with Jenni Eisenberg, at the height of our pre-adolescent rebellion), I would say it was making breakfast in bed for my parents.

Balancing juice on a tray, laying out the designer white paper napkin, the fork, the spoon. Putting cereal in a bowl, or toast on a plate, since I didn't really cook yet.

The long, slow, steady walk to the bedroom, balancing the tray, not knowing yet that to look at where you're going as opposed to looking at the tray is the way to do it, taking small, careful steps.

Thinking of my dad's initiation of this ritual makes me giggle as I did then -- though then it was a shriek of delight that woke my mom, ruining a bit of the surprise.

He was cooking an omelette, and thought he'd impress me by flipping it. He didn't. Softish in the middle, it dripped along the oven, and I remember shaking my head in disbelief at the mess, thinking he'd be in trouble. The "ooh you're going to the principal" kind of trouble, since in my 5-year old mind, and maybe still, mom ruled the kitchen sector.

I have been thinking alot lately of this type of memory, before I knew who I knew who I was, or who I would become. I still don't really know. I know parts of me, but not all of me. It takes my family and friends to reflect myself onto me. As I'm going with some trepidation, and also excitement, into my next project, I'm at their every whim. How do I create the lifetime of memories of food and recipes and travel and my hometown into 600 feet? That is the task, and I'm taking it on, all in the name of flavor and fun.

to-do list

1) study italian
2) plan international trip of this year
3) send anne a birthday card
4) send david a birthday present
5) shop
6) pack
7) write something meaningful

something meaningful.

I am overwhelmed today, and what else can I do to get past it but cook?

I'm not in the mood for eating, but am going to bring a sweet to my crush.

What am I making? Of all things, cheat and sweet dulce de leche. Cooked stove-top, in the can.

My mom taught me this trick:

You submerge a can of condensed milk in a pot of boiling water, and boil it for 90 minutes. Once the can has cooled, you can open it and spread it on bread, spoon it onto ice cream, or, well, eat it off the spoon. Or something.