Every January, the endless drear of New York City in winter gets to me and I tell Brian I want to move to the country to raise chickens. Afterwards, I usually wander into the kitchen and cook something elaborate like a tart or homemade pasta or a chicken pot pie, and then my yearning for greener surroundings abates and I feel better.
But as this too warm January progresses, there’s a difference. read more »
About the time of the first frost (or in our case first huge snowfall in October where the snow is just casually falling out of the sky without any kind of explanation like it’s no big deal), the little man who lives in my belly turns his thoughts from tomatoes and scallops and peaches and rosés to pork braises and roasted brussels sprouts and sausages and red wine. It works out nicely that way. read more »