Let’s back track a bit: Summer has arrived at Union Square— blueberries, zucchini, heirloom tomatoes! (But I’m saving all that for next week).
The recent, sunny days have yielded things such as a drippy sandwich on wheat sourdough w/ coppa (‘poor man’s prosciutto’ indeed! So cheap, so melting and smoky!), salted and peppered tomato, basil, some shallot, and strong dijon mixed w/ mayonnaise. There was a big salad of homemade croutons and deeply colored tomatoes with baby lettuces and spicy-sweet herbs; one morning, there was a humble creamsicle of a smoothie with fresh orange, plain yogurt, soymilk, and a bit of agave nectar. Refreshing, from the cool-sweet taste to the soft melon color? Yes.
And there were carrot salads.
But tonight! Tonight was just great; I cooked dinner for Wynn, who is moving down to Austin at the end of the week, and his adorable wife (also present were my faithful companions, Sandra and Rachel). There were wine-roasted chicken thighs with olives, coppa, thyme, and some parsley; they were crispy-golden-skinned and tender and seeping oil and juice about the plate. Said juices happily found their way onto the accompaniment: little, deeply green heaps of beet greens sauteed with garlic and chile with red wine vinegar, basil, and mint. Bread and butter went around the table, and there was much wine and recollection of relevant Seinfeld episodes.
Then, a sweet, smooth, pink strawberry rhubarb tart with a cornmeal crust found its way to the table, after a fierce struggle (it had stuck irreparably to the pan. It fell to pieces). It was a bit worse for wear, but a pleasant end all the same. And the entire thing, really, as a sweaty (roasting chicken in the near-nineties with no AC), vaguely stressful (still wrapping my head around dinner guests) whole, was a pleasant end— to working with Wynn, who is awesome. He’s off to Texas to move into a house and he’s going to be happy and it makes me happy.
People are really swell. I love them. Even the creepy guy who called out to me from a doorway and said, “Hey beautiful… God bless you, baby” to me, as I strolled back home along the humid avenue after walking Rachel home. Him too. I’d give him a piece of tart too, if I hadn’t served it all, and scraped up the savaged bits from the pan for myself.
Next time, neighbor.
(Maybe blueberry pie!)
