No cooking for me. This may be the first Thanksgiving since I was 19 that I didn't cook at all. Well, I went from house to house making proper gravy, but otherwise, no mashing, no probing, no stuffing, no sauteing. It's really kind of sad. I'm thinking of having a make-up turkey dinner soon.
Weekend was full of correspondence, writing, seeing the very very bad (bad in a good way Act, 1, bad in a bad way, Act 2) Mamma Mia and eating at the delightful Martine. Why doesn't every meal out consist of 7 little dishes? I love to taste things. When I move to Napa, I'm going to eat at the French Laundry every day. Also, this will happen when I win the lottery. But, if I do win the lottery, maybe I'll start my own French Laundry in Salt Lake. I'll call it the Mormon Clothesline to avoid charges against copyright infringement. I'll serve tiny gallettes of funeral potatoes, bread cubes ala sacrament, ambrosia salad--one marshmallow, one cubic centimeter each of madarin orange, grape, pear and peach, deep-fried chicken wing atop inch of mashed potato & cream gravy, ahi tuna casserole--seared ahi, homemade potato chip, mushrooms in cream sauce (aka, can of cream of mushroom soup).
Now I'm hungry. On Wednesday, Erik and I did cook. We made green chile sauce from anaheims from the last farmers market and 1/4 of a habenero from my garden. Too spicy to eat. Today, I mellowed it out with a can of tomatoes. Now, it's red chile sauce. Still hot, but not killer-death hot.
Tonight, I'm driving all the way out to the south Trio for dinner with cousins. And, considering my last Trio experience, I'm not too excited.
I also must go to the Avenues Bistro for a pity dinner. Terrible review in the Tribune by the new food critic. She was absolutely right. Maybe this town's restaurants will get in shape if someone kicks them in the butt a bit. I can't help. I feel sorry for all those chefs.