eggbeater

happy first day of spring. to you~ joy.

valentine's day sweet thangs.

raspberry jam filled bambolini from Heather Bertinetti

petit fours from Kiyomi Toda-Burke & Sandra Palmer

brown butter-pecan cream puffs {c'est moi}

mini mallowmars from Kiyomi Toda-Burke & Sandra Palmer

 
chocolate "sweethearts" at Peels by yours truly.

two thousand ten.

for cooks only; an unapology.

i don't know what inspires you
i don't know who inspires you
i don't know why you continue to get up in the morning
i don't know why you do what you do
i don't know why i didn't die before i turned 30
i should have
that was the direction i was heading
fast
furious

i don't know
and you don't either.
you can't
because it's not ours to know
maybe we can guess
but it really doesn't fucking matter
because all you have is now.
and what is your now?
is life happening to you
or are you in it?

you might be wondering, what is my fucking point here?
I better make it soon because you were just demolished by service and your kitchen was too damn hot tonight and the dishwasher broke in the middle of service and the most expensive protein in the walk in went off and the cream delivery never came in and no one noticed and you're starting with a longer 86 list tomorrow than your prep list
and
and and and.

i don't know what inspires you.
but i hope you know.
at least some of the time
because
it's so important
to know why we do what we do
but I'm not talking about some intellectual bullshit
that's not what you're going to be able to lean into
when you're so tired you can't remember how you got home
even though you aren't drunk or high
and perhaps haven't been
for some time.
a lot of time, even.

i hope you know what inspires, what motivates you, to go on
because you are going to fucking need it.
need it like a vein needs to be tied.
need it like a baby needs to be fed
need it like a dog needs direction
need.
i kid you not, yo.
because when you get home and the voices start
you will need to know why
because when your family or your friends or your partner or your community
call
and call out your name
and call you out
you are going to need to know

why

even if it makes no fucking sense
even if it seems absurd
even if it's absolutely crazy.

it's ok to love it and be passionate but
fire burns bright
and it burns out
and is indiscriminate
in who it burns
along the way.

i wish you a long, slow journey.
i wish you an intentional journey.
i wish for you the strength it takes to make an unapology
to be the kind of selfish that not all the bad kind.
i wish for you humility.
i wish for you a mentor, a teacher.
i wish for you to uncover learning and epiphanies and loyalties
where you least fucking expect it.

this profession takes heart.

serious.

so,
i don't know what inspires you
i don't know who inspires you
i don't know why you continue to get up in the morning
i don't know why you do what you do

but i hope you take some time to think about it

because you will be tested
your heart and your body and your psyche and your original book
and your mind
and your goals
and your ego
will be tested
and you will be slammed up against a wall
over and over and over and over
and you will be challenged
to assess and reassess and
i wish for you

clarity.

i wish for you at least one person in your life
who you know loves you no matter what
mistakes you make
and that you trust that person enough to listen to everything they have to say
even if you're so uncomfortable that you want to zip off your skin and run away forever
because you're going to need people to lean into
when you barely know yourself anymore.
you're going to need to be reminded
why.

new york city summer adventures, meandering, explorations, revisitations & deliciousnesses

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

you think you know a place {home is here. again}

you think you know a place.
it's because you do.
you know a place so well it hurts.
you think you remember.
you remember everything, in fact.
you remember what never be spoken again.
you remember what would never be believed, now.
you remember.
you remember her.
you remember being small.
you remember being hungry.
you remember every apartment, ever park, every school, every block, every friend, every everything.
you think you know a place.

it's because you do.

it's because you once did.
it's because body memory records.
it's because body memory breathes. lives. documents. stores.

just because you know a place. does not mean you can know a place forever.
places change.
places die.
places transform.
places grow old with you. and the same place, looks young to someone else.

you think you know a place.
and then you go away. for a long time.
you visit.
when you can afford to.
when you cannot afford to.
and subtly, you see the changes in your place.
years go by.
you live in a half dozen places.
you try and call each of them home.

but you know where you're from.
you know who made you.
you know what made you.
you can never forget.
even when you drink
even when you cut
even when you hide
even when you run
even when you drown
even when you love

you think you know a place.

 it's because you do.

and now.
now is decades later.
now she's gone.
but you see her everywhere.
most of all, she resides in you.

and now. the place is yours again. and so you walk.
and walk.
and walk.

you think you know a place.
but it never hurts to re-introduce.
to explore.
to make lists. to go back. to show the city that's yours, that's home, that's complicated

to someone else.
to yourself.
you take yourself on dates.
notice. stare. look up!

this place you know?
this place you have known forever?
this place that has made you. fought you. scarred you. challenged you. held you close. never let go. never meant to---
this place that you have always loved? this place you have always feared? this place you have always tasted. even when you called elsewhere home.

this place is meant to be shared.

you think you know a place. because you do. because you can. because you want.
{you want so hard.}

you know it. you know this place.

it's yours to have.

watermelon p o e m. by Shelly Butcher

Watermelon Grace

Crack open the green womb
juicy red fertility within
freckled by black seed.

Touch the velvet surface
Feel it ooze beneath
the pressure of eager fingertips.

Smell the faint odors
of sugar cane and pollen
of hot summer sun.

Bite the soft fruit
hear the crunchy chatter
of teeth on flesh.

Slurp sweet red blood
runs down mouth
fingers
neck.

Lick the last sticky dew drops
breathe summer breeze
Remember
how sweet, how cool.

- Shelly Butcher

(circa 1996)

Shelly's wit, words & wisdom can be found at her own blog, An Open Cupboard & examiner.com & within the Wellfed Network.

As a reminder, while I'm buried alive by opening a restaurant in NYC, there's an open call for guest authoring on eggbeater! email me directly if you've got something...

postcard poems.

unbound spring.
morning warmth.
a soft sun.
quiet sundays, a semicolon to summer.

`

Grand Central Station.
Iconic.
Marble.
Vibrating today with bagpipes and straight backs and a history forgotten.
There are tears at the edges of my eyes i did not put there.
I am grateful to be on a train today.
Grateful to have heard the music, the complicated instrument.

`

At the edge of Williamsburg, where development meets empty and water.
The city always looks the flattest flat from this angle.
Sunny out, wet underfoot.
Looking for perspective.
And answers that will never arrive.

`

New York is so undeniably itself under grey skies.
Barely perceptible tree buds quietly.
Greenwich Village.
Old streets.
Little corners.
Architectural details.
Brick cleaned by rain.
A whispered vibrancy .even in darkness.

`

the air felt like sea air today.
melancholy.
horizon line promising.
Forgetting.
hands waving at the dock.
fog mist soft wet wool.

`

today is watery melancholy spring
silk bias cut quilted sky
Neither gray nor blue.                             .both

`

besotted by spring.

`

First there was a string.
Then there was a knot.

`

Tender.
Flaky.
Rich.
Light.
Supple.
Vegetal.
Herbacious.
Unreal.

`

O No.
Vanilla is the muse of chocolate.

`

Today Brooklyn is Oakland.
Quiet. Desolate. Grey. Vast.

`

Purplish night.
New Jersey lights.
A soft and mercurial Hudson River.
Black dock pylons, broken rows, water eaten wood.
Gulls kibbutzing screaming interrupting.
Eyes refocus:one white bird sits neatly on each black line, like a matchstick.

`

Dusk.
Quilted sky.
Water towers silhouette.
Houston street and all its traffic lights.
Old squats.
Shiny kitchen equipment.
Memoried memories.
Footfalls distinct.

`

new york city winter 2009 - spring 2010

dessert poems. V {winter in nyc

apple cider ice cream
fried apple pie
rosemary caramel
Macintosh apple salad with warmed brown butter vinaigrette

frozen honey nougat
grapefruit supremes
kalamansi lime gelee
butter-toasted brioche croutons

bay leaf cream-carnaroli risotto
juniper berry & cocoa nib shortbread
comice pears
pine nut brittle dust

butterscotch pot de creme
pile of brown sugar-cumin-buttered pecans
vanilla egg cream, chantilly

panzanella of devil's food cake & sour cherries
chocolate chocolate twig ice cream
chicory cream
hot milk chocolate sauce
vanilla salt

warm persimmon pudding
persimmon-roasted shallot-walnut-dried white fig salad
labne sabayon

membrillo filled sheeps milk cheese doughnuts
rose petal tea sugar
earl grey cream

parfait of ~
various peppercorn & jaggery roasted pineapple
black sesame-amaranth jaconde
spicy coconut sorbet
tahini-toasted coconut jelly cubes
coconut caramel
black sesame-almond milk foam

semolina "custard"
fennel seed-broken almond-golden raisin-preserved lemon-candied orange peel-honeycomb-olive oil relish
burnt orange caramel ice cream & frozen honey mousse creamsicle
poppy seed lavosh

thyme & buckwheat crepes
cream of pear & parsnip soup
orange flower water roasted pears
sizzling buckwheat groats
white coffee chantilly

fudgesicle granita
grilled pound cake
marshmallow-milk chocolate-sourdough pretzel lumps
shuna's famous hot fudge sauce

previous dessert poems  ~

I  II  III IV

The High Line, New York City

 

 

 

The High Line is a park, is nerdy, is hip, is a railroad bed, is a new perspective of lower Manhattan, and the Hudson River too, is art, is life, is the sky above and the pavement below, all a bustle, is quiet, is stone, is plants, is birds and crickets too, is grasses, is pebbles, is design, is random, is history, is New York City, is a gallery, is like nothing I have ever seen before, is radical, is majestic, is the work of thousands of regular people, and special ones too, is open to the public, is a once-in-a-generation piece, as my friend Maury Rubin said recently.

If you live in NY or anywhere near NYC and you have not been to the High Line yet, you have no excuse worth breathing life into. Just go. And if you have New York City on your future plans, fit this beautiful space in.

If you're so jaded to think you've seen and done it all already, go somewhere else and leave those of us crushed out on the High Line alone to enjoy it with each other.

The High Line is my new favorite person, place & thing. I go in the rain and sun and in cool and on warmer days.

I went last week and took too many photos. It was rainy, very cold, and almost completely empty.

There are four sets on flickr that, especially if you go in order, will give you a very close idea of what it feels like to look ahead, side-to-side and all around the High Line...

one, 2, THREE &  f o u r.

/i have a crush on you

place i call home
someone in california i've never met
person whose words stay with me, tucked safe, all day. following me like faeries, inquisitive, flirtatious, firey, expansive, temptive.
i have always had a crush on you, red headed girl
city i used to live in and live in again but you're a different city now
red bicycle
fellow who knows and has always known and may always know but who i'll never kiss
farmer and keeper of land and dogs and swimming hole i know as well as my body
Yorkshire girl collecting evidence, wearing pink shoes and being a fierce friend for 20 years this october
co-pastry chef one and also two
treehouse i left behind
succulents
family i've come to know who speak a hundred languages and live where the Eurostar takes a turn
i have a crush on you
s.s. you know who you are. you have a different name and so do i. you write long letters and aren't afraid of my words.
i have a crush on you chocolatey spicy deep taste of freshly roasted ground and espresso'd and hot milked coffee
Bonsoy soy milk
pastry chef camaraderie
Mentoring
inspiring
Neal's Yard Paddy & Rob whom i've never met but whose voices i drink once a week
i have a crush on you
girl with music at her fingertips and an Unlikely name
married bois and that one from Canada who makes me blush when we play Bridge
and you
silver haired LA boyfox who conjured and pulled me here, upon his lifeboat, and fed me delicious cakes and could see my path even when i can't because my eyes are muddy
azo. always i will love you. always i will be seen by you. always i will believe you'll come back down to earth
cb. you are big and bigger and also i remember when your father threw the salad out the window. i will visit that bench in central park and remember our first kiss.
i have a crush on you number four because you're orange and,     well... so there.
bw. because i will never be able to tell you. your brother is a close second because he's so much you, and yet completely opposite.
yes, i know you think it's silly but i have a crush on you aj and your pink tie and practical nature and mostly i love that you give gm what he never would have taken from anyone else. not even me.
i have big long-standing crushes on you euro boys in shepherd's bush who have made me rabbit stew and the best aubergine i have ever had. i love your open open hearts
i have a crush on you hp because you have allowed me to reach in and pull out gently what was there always.
rgl. you are brave in ways you may never realize.
db, of course.
aw who used to be ab with the longest double word score name. you have known me since before i could look back at the person in the mirror
i have a crush on you
ok. your grace stunned me when i walked into your kitchen. i will never be the chef i was before i met you. i know something else now because of you. i know another side of integrity and sharing. and no matter how scared the people i work with are in my future, i will remember how you shared and opened all your doors to me. even though you knew very well what i was doing there.
and you mr x. thank you for being my ally and for teaching me about why Hobarts are the best stand mixers in the world.
i have a crush on you dl from Israel with your scratchy tough exterior and bold tone. you're straight and you'll never see my eyes but i see you. and felt honoured to be on your team.
i have a crush on you ah and tmp because you have years yet to know your power behind the stove. i hope i get to see you tear that cocoon apart and stand as tall as your dna made you.
i have a crush on you too d. spratt and not just for your surname! you knew my name and said it aloud. you saw me and placed me there, even though you don't know it.
i have a crush on you: my Bridge game. because i get to conjure everything my mother taught me, but have the time to learn now.
roy. your camp is infectious. your love of baking is physical, literal, body. it is not about fame but about the alchemy of butter meeting flour and marrying inexplicably, tenderly. your humour is silly but when it comes to the kitchen you swim seamlessly with moving tide and undertow alike.
i have a crush on you new york city, to whom i am about to return. to whom i am indebted to for pages and libraries of adventures, original crushes, heartbreaks, delicious tastes and bitter grief.
i might even have a crush on you u n c e r t a i n t y
because you continue to teach me to put one foot in front of the other even though the horizon is obscured, let alone any forest.
i have a crush on you
life.
even though i never thought i'd say that.
you give unrelentlessly,
everything.
and i have a choice
to pick it up, fold it carefully, and hold it close
if i so choose.
i have a crush on you
heart.
because you remind me i am who i have always been and no amount of hardening
will make you wooden.
will stop you from beating
and having crushes
on you.

favorite ingredients

demerara sugar
eggs
love
buckwheat flour
butter
honesty
inquisitiveness
rosemary
lima salt
bacon fat
espresso
humour
Jersey milk
cold water
freshly ground black pepper
goat yogurt
cocoa nibs
desire to learn
pink peppercorns
Madagascar vanilla beans
fennel seeds
patience
passion
humility
the ability to say a sorry you mean
beef bone marrow
crab
chocolate egg creams
leeks
Scharffen Berger milk chocolate
peach leaves
Royal Blenheim apricots
rhubarb
mangoes
passion
butter caramel
puff pastry
deep breaths
diplomacy
wet green peppercorns
lemon zest
orange blossom honey
mastic
strong black tea
homemade soy sauce
corn on the cob
roasted red peppers
overcooked broccoli
mama
family
research
Jane Grigson
Laurie Colwin
cherry blossoms
the scent of hay
cumulus clouds
roasted chicken
Little Gem lettuces
quince
sun warmed blackberries in August
wild blueberries
hazelnuts
kisses
French Horns
memories
egg bagels
red cabbage
fresh horseradish
playing bridge until 4 am
old school Adidas
holding hands
bicycling down a steep hill
sauteed foie gras
raw clams on a New York boardwalk
Coney Island
juniper berries
fresh blackcurrants
young ginger
asking questions
cardamon
jaggery
oats
thick cold tart yogurt
Meyer lemons
marmalade
crushes
sharp knives
baby offset spatulas
camaraderie
the banana song
homemade marshmallows
Yiddish
haroset
hip hop
raw fennel
eggplant/aubergine
canneles
bee's wax
persimmons
eating fruit off trees
Black Mission figs
mud pies
postcards
words
Sharpies
absorbent side towels
typewriters
silver quenelling spoons
stainless steel saucepans
parchment paper
lust
silpats
the color orange
sailors
unrequited love
novels
farmer's markets
craft
dark chocolate
leaf gelatin
green almonds
nocino
asking for help
golden raisins
rosewater
pistachios, untoasted
ripe tomatoes
the scent of rice on steam, cooking in your house
sesame oil
pomegranate seeds
soft brown sugar
hot porridge at dawn when there's snow falling outside
Thanksgiving dinner during the first week of November
flirting
compliments & complements
lobster
smoked fish
heirloom apples
dogs running through open fields
green olives
bread baking
brown butter
whisks
crushes
Santa Rosa plums
okra
tears
love letters
Doyenne du Comice pears
taking chances
having faith
walking through our fears
roux
Lyle's Golden Syrup
Damson plums
Meadowsweet pannacotta
sober sex
shallot-morel-puff pastry tart
black truffle
grapefruit
making new friends
teaching
learning
train trips
toasted English muffins
peeled chestnuts
whole roasted young fava beans
Muhammara
rolling pins
young coconut
forbidden black rice
confidence
seeded watermelon
green, opalescent fleshed H'aogen melons
pumpkin pie
sleep
vivid dreams
asking 'Why'
red quinoa
helping the most important person in your life die
walking through grief
Mara de Bois strawberries
scallops
swimming in the ocean
moving great distances
knitting
jokes you laugh at while telling them
corniness
adventures
loving
being loved
not being afraid of difference
redefining success
apologizing
watering all the plants on the same day
watching an orchid take weeks to blossom and stay for months
baths
organizing memorials
honey roasted peanuts
eating freshly churned ice cream off the spatula
adding baking soda to caramel and watching it froth up, turn opaque and later break it open and see why they named it Honeycomb, or Hokey Pokey
burning fingertips on tuiles
making lists
showing up for the hard stuff
surviving
glitter
a tongue on the inside of an elbow
torching meringue
raking leaves
lemon juice
hot fudge sauce
cucumbers
hot chorizo
padron peppers sauteed in olive oil and drenched in sea salt, eaten out of a black cast iron skillet
biscuits made with hand rendered lard
buttermilk
elderberry cordial
limes
gingerbread cake
yellow peaches
the desire to live.