Jack Frost Nipping At My Nose With The Promise Of Eggs

Recently, I was greeted by the biting cold of home. It happened almost instantly: my nose dried out, the skin on my knuckles started to crack like boiled tomatoes, and my eyes became watery with the sheer shock of the temperature. A splendid welcoming! The cold is different from the winds of Chicago, it doesn't take a single break to re-accumulate. Its jaws force us to cuddle up inside by the fire, which I must say is rather pleasant.
The moment I arrived home I had a great long sleep. It was five o'clock in the afternoon. I felt as if I hadn't slept in months, and I awoke to complete silence on my living room couch. I sat, and waited for the crackle of the fire to make its way to my thirsty ears. I looked up to the crumbling wood ceiling, and in a nasty web was a poor deceased fly. It hung ominously, but before thinking a beat on the unpleasantness of the thing, I felt a pang of relief to finally be in a place where flies can execute their short life-cycle. I had not seen a bug since August.


In the morning I was disoriented, and not entirely certain what to do with myself. I stumbled downstairs, surprised to meet my mother there. The coffee was the first thing to go on. Then I pulled out a small frying pan with a wobbly handle and took great pleasure in heating it up with some olive oil on the stove. I made myself eggs. With extra drippy yolk - possibly my greatest source of happiness. A thing so infused in my taste buds that I had to tattoo it on the back of my neck. I smothered my toast with pesto and oil and placed my eggs on top. I immediately washed my dishes (something I never used to do while lounging at home) and wandered to the couch to sit again by the fire. The coffee smelled heavenly, and felt at home in the tight grasp of my fingers. I took a large bite and the warm sunny mess came dripping down my chin and onto the plate. The salty tang of an old love affair was practically unbearable, but I was starving for more. It was not a breakfast to sustain myself or to build my energy. It was a reunion.

Full Bellies and Snug Slumbers

Seasoned Plum Summer

window face.

Perhaps Cakes?

Plentiful Pies and Knives.

Smile, Emoticon strangling,

Eat Radishes.

Be Radical.

Alimental Adventures in Autumn!

(But seriously how beautiful is my state?)

It's officially fall here in Chicago and as the sun struggles more and more to conquer the Sears Tower, I find myself missing the incandescence of my Vermont hills in the morning. Of course a detailed description of the foliage this time of year would be completely and utterly useless to most of you readers who can achieve that perennial fixation by any given Robert Frost poem, or of course any of the bazillion postcards that are produced every Autumn. So I'm here to share a different obsession of mine. 


Have you ever been fortunate enough to participate in apple thievery? Well, let me tell you... it's quite popular among Vermont natives (this Vermont native, at least.) Being that there are so many orchards across the state, there is bound to be one right next to a road, right? Well yes, in fact, there are a plethora! I shock even myself with the reality that I only discovered this gem of an idea this past fall, right at the heart of my last year in the green mountains. 

It's easy: Just drive that Subaru up at a snails pace (being as stealth as you possibly can be), creep out and climb onto the shoulders of a particularly tall friend, and grab everything in sight. They may not be the apples which receive the most nurtured love and care, but they are precious apples all the same and should not very well be wasted - left to rot to the core only to plunge to their ultimate demise among the dirt and the weeds of those lonely back roads. And so we save them from this humiliation and present them with a hearty and satisfied life. It's far more of a service, really, than theft....


You may ask, what do we do with these sacred little gifts from our kind orchard keepers? Do we devour them all at once for the sake of instant gratification? Do we bake them into pies and tarts? Do we turn them to jams and butters and smear them on toast? Apple cider? Turnovers? Crisp? All delicious ideas, but were I faced just one more time with a sack full of apples and the infinite forrest free for the taking I would have no choice but to turn to an old friend, the ever confounding Hobo Apple.


On a cool, breezy New England day nearly a decade ago, my brother and I were hijacked into apple picking by my dear mother. Little did I know that it would turn out to be one of the more memorable days of my childhood. Sure, we picked a few apples, climbed a few trees, and fiddled with the cider press, (which alone would have made for a rather pleasant Autumn day) but the joy of the afternoon was born in a barrel. Not a barrel of apples or cider or anything logical of that nature that would typically be found at an apple orchard, but fire in a barrel, similar to the barrels you might catch a glance of in the back-alleys of these Chicago streets, keeping our locals warm. 

*(Come to think of it, this revival is proving to be more and more plausible....)

Crowded around the barrel were several adolescents with apples on skewers, and after further investigation, my brother and I uncovered the Hobo Apple.


Cored and stuffed with cinnamon & sugar, or occasionally Vermont cheddar cheese, the Hobo Apple is roasted over a fire until it becomes slightly charred, and nicely soft. Now of course this recipe can be modified to suit the needs of, lets say, an oven, but in this case the truth is, the integrity of the Hobo Apple suffers. Plus, where's the fun in warming your cold, wind stricken hands in front of a toasty oven light?


As it is now, I may be simply forced to sacrifice two integral steps in the process: No apple thievery possible in the city without ripping off honest farmers market salesmen, and I do believe barrel fires in my dorm room would be frowned upon.

If You Still Wonder at the Power of Food, Try Italian

Each and every time I take a sip of wine, a very distinct reel of images pokes its mischievous head out from the depths of my memory. I float right back to Florence, (an immediately blissful place to exist) where I peer up at the sky through tall grass. Sunlight peaks through a dandelion to tickle my cheek and I am surrounded by laughter. There are brilliant people all around and for once, I am not taking the moment for granted. 

Our picnics were taken very seriously. We collected cheese and bread and prosciutto, nutella and strawberries, grapes, olives, no forks or knives or spoons. We had no knowledge of the correct wine to drink, so we paid very little and drank both red and white, then red again for good measure. There was no need for glasses, we intended to share the moment completely, as family. We sat in a circle and beamed at one another, already discerning the significance of one afternoon. Sip then pass, and try to remain calm if you are skipped. 

We were dreaming together, and it was as if time were offering us a precious gift. Three times we returned to the hills to drink our wine and share our cheese and break our bread, but as the years persist, the moments have become woven together with affection. Now, we are in love with one simultaneous breath - captured and set free. 

Chicago, a Dynamite City? Yes. Explosive.

One of my first gastric adventures was to a well known breakfast place on Michigan avenue called Yolk. Now, while I am certain that many Chicago natives, tourists, and students have experienced this majestic holy land of morning glory, I have to insist that myself and three of my girls had one of the more religious experiences of these frequent Yolk passers-by. 
The morning went like this: 
We rose from our beds reluctantly (as all college students do, and adolescents for that matter) to greet the morning and the afternoon as one. It had been quite the night of bonding, as it was our first week at Columbia College, little baby freshmen and proud. So, of course, we consumed poison from a water bottle stashed by a friend, we talked, we played games, and we laughed - an overall incredible night. The result, however, was detrimental, if not fatal. The old, stale, far too cheap beverage left its mark, and relentlessly at that. But it was my roommate's birthday and we refused to give up. We ignored our angry stomachs and forced ourselves to get dressed and celebrate... again. This is where Yolk steps in.
We entered, we sat, we pondered, we ordered, we waited. The options in this heaven would shock you - cinnamon buns converted into french toast, pancakes stuffed, topped, and spiced, twice the size of your head, omelets folded with so many vegetables they are almost quiche (and there's nothing wrong with that.) Even the juice mixtures caused stresses on our cramped little minds. This menu was a monster, and though we knew we had four years to defeat it, we were yearning to take it on all at once and right away. So we tried...
The grumpy waitress didn't even bother me as I caught the loving gaze of my strawberry-choco pancakes with two eggs over easy and a sausage-bacon combo. Orange juice. Coffee. Free refills. It was a dream and a nightmare.

I am beginning to mourn the life of my once iron stomach. It happened just a couple years back, after a trip to Nicaragua, where my gaping belly was forced to squeeze back to a healthy size. Beforehand I could consume the most atrocious things, and two helpings worth: Burgers and chili cheese fries with a chocolate shake to wash it down, plus the all important appetizer of mozzarella sticks or onion rings... or both. Half a casserole of chicken broccoli alfredo, fettucini, steamed green beans, roasted red potatoes, and two glasses of wine - carrot cake for dessert. Giant pots of muscles and bread. Entire doner kebabs. Paula Deen would have been proud. Since Nicaragua I have had to ration my eating, believing I can finish heaping plates of food without so much as a bathroom break, arriving at the end of my intestines, sorely disappointed in my progress (not even half the plate gone) and, incidentally, in great pain. Is this a blessing? Does this mean a flatter stomach and a less outrageous ass? Maybe... but is this happiness? No. Its more like a waste of good food. 
Pop a big ole' hangover onto this sour dilemma and you have my dissatisfaction with the pathetic advances I made that morning at Yolk. I had the determination and the yearning to carry forth, but not the stamina. In the end, my stomach won the battle. Several trips to the ladies room couldn't save me, I had to give in. 


I plan on returning to Yolk very soon, when my gut is strong and I feel slightly more confident in my financial situation. I have high hopes for this encounter, but for now I will leave you all with this stimulating inquisition (for which I am eager to hear your feedback and/or comments):


Chocolate covered bacon - entirely delicious or a shame on our race?