Sure, this weekend I “threw together” a dish of chicken poached in a salsa made of four different peppers, tomatoes and other veggies, all blackened and pureed, and a salad of julienned kohlrabi and jalapenos with a lime vinaigrette, and some black beans with epazote and garlic. But, really, I’m not feeling much up to the cooking thing lately. Once a week on Sunday, that’s my current limit, and that’s only to give me something to eat for lunches for the workdays which follow.
No, lately when I get home from work all I seem to have the time to do is chop some veggies for a quick salad before I fire up the laptop and reapply the nose firmly to the grindstone. The dishes normally don’t even get washed until Saturday or so, also once a week (my pitiful kingdom for a dishwasher).
Oy. Sure, eating all those veggies is good for me but I’m starting to find myself longing for some good, solid, rib-sticking food. Something warm and creamy and decadent, like pasta with a fabulous cheese sauce or a potato dauphinois. Yeah, I fully realize that it’s August and the temperature outside often is seen hovering around 95° and that, logically, I ought to be craving those cool summer dishes like salads, ceviche and sandwiches. I don’t care. I find myself suddenly very sick of salads crafted out of peak locally-grown produce. Heirloom tomatoes? Screw that. Bring on the cheese, the cream, the pork and the other comfort foods which make life worth living.