A Final Post

I love my little kitchen. I still cook and eat in it, but writing from it has shifted. It's pretty evident from the silence here, right?

I have accepted a position at The Local Palate, so you can find my food musings both on line and print there. In addition, you'll also find lots of other strong voices, recipes from many of the best Southern chefs, and plenty of additional food-related fun to keep you hungry.

See you there!

White Flag Over Black Bean Burgers

Somethings are worth making your own: pizza dough (so easy), chicken stock (so yummy), and red rice (no package preservative nastiness). And somethings aren't: brownies (Giradelli boxed rocks), oatmeal ("ain't nobody got time for that") and black bean burgers ...

Four cans of black beans, lovingly pulverized, homemade breadcrumbs from Mom, organic eggs, chili powder, garlic salt, sauteed onion, and a healthy dose of cumin, and I just threw all the frozen patties in the big garbage can outside.

I am economical but eating veggie burgers that taste like cumin-y cardboard make me sad. I don't care enough to try again, don't eat them often enough to try again, so looks like Morningstar wins.

I'm fine with that. I know when I'm beat.

Your Pig Oughta Be In Pictures

I have been cooking, eating, and writing, but not posting.

A big project is afoot ... and possibly you could help.

I am working on an anthology of BBQ Pig signs in the South. It's a little creative essay, a little photo essay, a little history meets Southern gothic, and all me.

Do you have an image that you'd like to contribute? Then here are the particulars:

1. It needs to be of the establishment's sign itself.
2. The establishment needs to be in the South.
3. The sign needs to have a pig on it.
4. Please include how you'd like the photo credit to read, as well as the city, state of where the sign is located.
5. Please hurry. I'm furiously compiling the anthology due in less than a month.
6. If you'd like to contribute, please comment here with an email address where I can reach you, and we'll take it from there ...

THANK you!!

Turnip Chronicles II: Resigned Redemption

By Stephanie Burt

[fade in]

Woman #1 in comfortable clothes opens fridge and pulls out turnips. They have had tops removed ...

[flashback]

Woman #1 holds hand over cast iron skillet, then adjusts heat, pours a decent splash of olive oil into pan, then tosses chopped greens from cutting board into pan. Greens turn vibrant color. Woman #1 smiles, adds a dash of salt, some sliced grape tomatoes, and a beaten egg. Scene fades ...

Scene 2

Woman #1 (mumbling): OK, treat them just like potatoes. We'll see ...

Woman turns on water, scrubs each turnip under spigot, then turns off water and quarters each small, white veggie. Meanwhile, she turns away and hits the preheat button on the oven.

She opens cabinet above her head, pulls out cranberry-colored Pyrex dish (popular in 1998) and fills with diced turnips. Sprinkles with herbs from herb shelf, drizzles with olive oil, then tosses. Washes her hands, then grabs dish and places in the oven. Leaves room ...

Scene 3

Woman #1 walks back into room and opens oven. Calm. Grabs potholder, pulls out dish, sitting it on top of stove. She peers into it, then hits "cancel" on stove buttons.

Woman #1: OK, already better. No burning. Let's see how you taste -- chicken makes everything better.

Woman #1 pokes turnip with fork, piercing it, then brings it to her mouth, pausing. She blows on the veggie, browned on one side and soft, then takes a bite, reacting to the hot.

Woman #1: OK. Not bad. That'll do, pig. That'll do.

Woman #1 looks off in distance with a faint recognition ... [thinking] Have I heard that line before?

[fade out]

This has been a S. Burt plagiarized production.

Making Bacon ... Literally

I've been a busy gal as of late, but please refrain from using the term "bringing home the bacon."

Instead, I've actually been making bacon.

This is a new level. By that I mean the gateway drug was making homemade soap, then jam, then homemade wine and blackberry cordial, then on to pickles and now ... bacon. Curing meat ("ooooooh" my inner chemist cooed).

Me & My Bacon. Image by Forrest Clonts

Granted, I don't know how much I will do this moving forward, but I was not going to pass up the opportunity to learn, especially from such a talented meat curer as Tim Peters. And it was fun! Curry, fig, fenugreek and sorghum bacon ... I'll let you know how it tastes when it comes back from the smoker in a couple of weeks.

Until then, read my blog for The Local Palate here. Then get adventurous in your own lab ... uh, I mean kitchen.

A Non-Gender Specific Green Bean Casserole

My mom's explanation for The Green Bean Casserole is the following:

"I know that it's not that exciting, honey, but men just love it."

So we have GBC at every holiday. And my dad and brother-in-law look forward to it. I'm not going to delve into the gender-specific nature of this comment, but I guess she's cooked it a lot longer than I have, so I'll leave it at that.

Still, it's definitely not something that excites me all that much. Well, besides the French Fried onions on top ... so I went to the Vintage Kitchen for a suitable replacement that wouldn't have anyone grumbling at the table, no matter the gender.

For my vegetarian sister, I'm serving the bacon on the side for individual serving.

Click here for the complete column, and enjoy!

Recipe from the Monticello Cookbook

You Know What is Good?

I am Tired. Weeknight tired. Although the Super Bowl of cooking is coming up (read "Thanksgiving"), I am creating simplicity for the additions to our table. Buttermilk Lemon-Lime Pound Cake. Roasted Brussell Sprouts with Bacon and Onion. That's stuff that is easy, or at least comfortable for me to execute. I always say -- don't use this day to whip out the recipe you wish you knew how to cook. Just be thankful for food, family, friends.

Did I mention food? Well, here are some of the foods I'm thankful for ...

-- the loaded baked potato at The Royal American
-- avocado smoothies with local honey
-- shoepeg corn
-- fresh, amazing October beans from Rosebank CSA
-- Roots Ice Cream
-- oh yeah, King of Pops too
-- Hilton Head Popcorn
-- Cardinal Gin
-- soda water
-- a roasted chicken on a cold night
-- pita bread, warm and dipped in tzatziki
-- banana pudding, from my mom's table
-- local fish, local shrimp, local oysters

... and friends and family to enjoy all of this with ...

The Turnip Chronicles I: Epic Fail

Screenplay by Stephanie Burt

[fade in]

A woman in black stilettoes and pencil skirt comes out of a local business with a resuable grocery bag as the sun is setting behind the building. She opens the back car door, sitting the bag on the back seat, and excitedly rifles through the contents. Her face falls when she spies something in the bag, and she abruptly sits it in the floorboard, shuts the door, climbs back in the driver's seat and drives off.

[cut to the interior of a house, a kitchen, very small but filled with modern appliances]

Scene 1

Woman in knee-length boots and dress opens the fridge and pulls out a bunch of turnips, green tops still intact, and places them on the cutting board. She then turns, hits the preheat button on the stove, then exits the scene.

Scene 2

Woman in toile-patterned pajama pants and tank top walks into the frame and makes a beeline for the Charles Shaw merlot on the edge of the counter. She takes off the wine saver top, opens cabinet, pulls down a glass and pours wine as she looks at the turnips on the cutting board. She takes a big swig. That's right, swig. Not sip. Then she pulls out a half sheet pan from the bottom of the oven.

Woman #1: I hate this drawer [struggling]

She sits cookie sheet on top of stove. She then turns to turnips, washing carefully, trimming greens and discarding, then takes out her off-brand chef's knife and slices turnips ultra thin, taking slices and putting them in a bowl. Tosses slices with olive oil and garlic salt and garam masala, then arranges turnip slices on cookie sheet. Opens oven door, slides cookie sheet in oven, then closes door. Walks out of frame.

Scene #3

[oven timer beeping]

Woman #1: Ok, let's check this out. The smell is what I remember, but I'm hoping for the best.

Woman opens door. Steam and smoke billow out. Woman feebly waves pot holder in defense.

[smoke detector starts screeching]

Woman #1: Alright! alright! [waving pot holder wildly above her head in direction of smoke detector].

She returns her attention to the oven, using the same potholder to quickly remove the sheet pan, sit it on top of the oven, and then push some buttons that turn the oven off.

Woman #1: [large sigh] These turnips were picked in vain! [camera zooms in toward pan]

Woman tilts pan over the trash can. A few chips fall into the can, but most  of the turnip chips stick and she is forced to set pan back down on top of the stove.

Fade to black [literally]

The Turnip Chronicles II -- Coming Soon.

Vintage Kitchen for OKRA

I am so thrilled to be able to announce this: I have a food column.

While other middle school girls were descending into major crushes of New Kids on the Block, I was beginning to read Kathleen Purvis (I liked music but I didn't wallpaper my room with pics like one of my friends did). Purvis just happened to be the food editor of my local paper, but she was funny and informed and very honest, and I liked her. She was my food writer, my first food writer, though it was later that I realized that she is a really good and respected food writer. In short, she is beloved.

Well, today, I think back on that middle school girl. I have my own food column, which is different than just writing about food. A column is my personal voice, my personal platform, and I am happy that it has landed at OKRA.

My headshot for The Vintage Kitchen. Image by Leslie McKellar.

Click here to read my first full article as the "Vintage Kitchen" columnist for OKRA, an online magazine of the Southern Food and Beverage Museum. Thanks to the mighty and magical photographer Leslie McKellar who is my friend and generously shot this piece. She makes me look good. But the food is the thing; it's always the thing, and writing about it makes me happy. Feeding you makes me happy too. Or just talking about how you feed others, so never stop telling me why you like it.

Cracked Conch Cracks My Heart Wide Open

Lime. Salt. Blue water close and reaching to the horizon. Let's face it, the first time I had cracked conch, I was set up to love it. But over the years, I've had it many more times, and it's become one of those "vacation" meals, you know, the one that you're like, "Aah, NOW there it is. I'm really here" kind of taste bud experience?

Well, it was already dark on a Sunday evening, and I was here in the land of Lowcountry marsh, not on vacation on a dock, my eyes not filling with the Caribbean blue that I crave just before I go to sleep. Still, I was in for a treat, I knew. There are some meals that you know you are not going to be able to recreate. Fine. But to eat a meal that you know is only a mirage as you're still chewing is a kind of desperate joy.

The conch was from the Bahamian out island of Andros. It was clean and milky white, not gray like the stuff you can get here. It was imported on a personal flight, a checked baggage of deliciousness that was worth any customs hassle.

We were about to have cracked conch from a home kitchen. First, we had to flatten it "like it's done something to your Mama." Pound it thin, sprinkle salt and pepper directly on the meat, dredge it in an egg wash first, then flour laced with Adobo.

And at every step, squeeze a lime on it. Before the dredging. After the dredging. After frying (which you do until it reaches golden brown deliciousness.) And serve it with a slice.

Now, at this point, I always liked a little heat, but I didn't realize that I was working with a new level. What new level? This:

Matouk's Calypso Sauce is the new level

Good stuff. One drop, awesome. Bring it. Two drops, of course. I'm a professional. Three drops, oh, I've gone too far. Is it hot in here or is it just me?

But the cracked conch was ... heartbreaking. With every bite, I knew I couldn't cook this again, make this happen again. This was it.

Tuesday Night Tortilla

 I don't have a microwave.

I know. This means, to some of you at least, that I can't cook fast food. That, when I'm hungry, I can't eat when I want to. That it has to be roasted chicken, short ribs, or nothing.

Wrong. Have you ever died in 20 min. from hunger? Uh, no.

Well then. You can have this on a Tuesday evening, like I did last night. I have discovered these habanero-lime tortilla wraps from Trader Joe's. They make goat cheese and tomatoes a meal, but more importantly, they make weeknight "cooking" easy -- without a microwave.

I had tilapia in the freezer ... now I am not 100% sure it was tilapia because it wasn't labeled, and I don't purchase that anymore, but still.  It was there; I needed to use it. Enter the tortillas.

A quick oven foil packet for the fish was all it took, 20 min., with lime and some salt and spices. Add spinach and avocado, and we have a meal. See? Non-processed food doesn't have to be hard. But having a killer tortilla wrap helps.

Mango is Just a Playa

I have a love/hate relationship with mangoes.

First: the hate.

I see them on sale at the grocery store, with a sticker that says "RIPE". I narrow my eyes at the sticker. Really, I think? But in the end, I believe it, just like I do the guy who says, "Baby, you are very special to me."

I go home with high hopes, only to have them dashed the next day in the kitchen. The mango is not ripe, smells and tastes pine-y, and has a fibrous pit that takes up most of the fruit. Despite the sweet juice running over my fingers as I slice little pieces off, it's basically unsatisfying.

This has happened numerous times. Why? Because I remember the love. I want to experience the love again.

Second: the love.

I'd taken the Tequila Trolley across the border to Juarez, before the heavy start of the war zone it is today, but just enough of a rough spot to make it a bit exciting. Of course, I and my companion bailed the trolley and ended up walking most of the way to the market. I was young and silly, but really, what was I thinking, thinking how odd it was to pass a hospital where everyone bandaged was leaning and standing on crutches outside, smoking?

But, flippantly naive, we made our way safely to the market.

It was midday and we walked into the non-air conditioned hangar. The scent of overripe mangoes soon overtook me, and my eyes filled with the sights of counters for a fast meal, piles of fruit, cold soda of indiscriminate variety, and plenty of crafts. Mangoes were forever associated with my first foreign market.

A few years later, I tasted a mango as it should be, ripe from a tree from a neighbor's yard in Florida. It was hot and honey and sweet and all the things I wanted it to be in the exotic way that none of my cut-and-dried Carolina fruit had ever been.

I was hooked.

Finally: unrequited love resolved.

But since then, it's been back to the hate, back to the empty promises of the "RIPE" label in the produce section, so much so that I resolved to stop on-and-off dating such a player. I mean, really? Is it worth it?

Last night, I finally got what I was asking for, and it was because I refused to listen to the label. Yes, the mangoes were labeled "reduced for quick sale." But they smelled ripe and looked ripe, and I trusted my instincts instead of some story that the store was trying to tell me.

I picked some winners, bringing home four that sliced like butter and were honey and rich and orange and sweet, none of the bite and all of the kiss. Aaah. I added a little honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, and they were the dessert of late summer dreams, hurricane humidity in the air and the feeling of the end of long lazy days drowsy with heat.

Dreaming of Dinner

It happens every year. August. For some reason, I just have a hard time cooking this month. And this year more than most years.

There's the heat. And the work. And the fact that, really, I'd rather be anywhere else other than standing  in my little kitchen. That's right. I feel this way too. Cooking is for crisp autumn days, where it doesn't seem a chore to peel more than a few apples, and where you can spend a lingering dinner with friends without having to worry about being too hot and too bothered to enjoy their company.

Yes, I have air conditioning, but I don't have it up so high that I don't know what season it is. And when I'm searing something in the oven, it seems that in my little kitchen, every time the oven door opens is a time for the smoke alarm to go off. And that's just one more thing. It is just too hot to hear that noise, over and over.

So I haven't been doing much cooking. Celebrities such as Gwyneth Paltrow or Gwen Stefani would call it a raw diet, but I call it lazy. Do I want to make a quiche with cheese, spinach and tomatoes? Uh, no. I will just eat slices of cheese, some raw spinach and tomatoes with maybe a boiled egg. Or maybe if I eat enough olive oil popcorn, almonds and edamame I won't have to eat dinner. Done.

Now, we all know this is excluding my comfort go-to, the roasted chicken. Eating like a king for 5 min. prep is worth it. I've recently been using a Caribbean oil blend from Charleston Spice Co. that makes it amazing. Still ...

I dream of being motivated, of deciding on a whim to bake a cherry lemon pound cake. I think of how good a mustard braised pork chop dinner with mashed potatoes would taste, or how I'd like to try to make a bread salad like the one I saw last week at another person's house. But I'm just too hot. Too unmotivated. Too hungry to wait. So I wait a little more, until that day, when suddenly the "project" of one of Rick Bayless' Mexican dishes sound like fun, not like a chore.

Until then, I'll be here, loving the heat but not able to stay in the kitchen. It's one of those worlds, isn't it?

Does That Taste a Little "Goat-y"?

Sometimes the Little Kitchen goes on a road trip. This is especially true this time of year when I'm officially too hot and stressed to cook very often. So Sunday evening I attended my second LIME dinner in as many weeks, though this time without the pirate outfit I sported last time ... but that's a story for another day.

This was was a truly underground dinner -- five courses of goat, with a starter goat cocktail. Although I played bartender, I thought the concoction of goat whey, rum, lime juice and sugar was, well, a bit "goat-y." Everyone seemed to love it, but I was a bit skeptical. Where was my Cardinal and tonic? Sigh. You know I drank it anyway ...

But then we were on to the meal itself, and the second course ended up being my favorite of all -- a flatbread made with housemade goat cheese along with goat sausage crumbles seasoned with an African berber spice blend. As you can see, I ate a piece before I remembered to take a picture:

OK, looks like it was two slices. Sorry.

But wow, it was amazing. It had an earthiness that was perfectly balanced by the crispy flatbread, and the microgreens were just a bit of bright to heighten the deep flavors. 

In the next course, the soup course, the goat was more like short ribs, and by the time we got to the goat chop crusted in pistachios and coconut, I had given up taking pictures, and instead was just eating, talking (no surprise there) and pouring wine for the other guests. 

Trident Tech student chef Helen Hayes tapped her inner alter ego (pictured below in tattoo form) and rocked it ninja-style in the kitchen, cooking multiple meat courses in the July heat and smiling through it all:

I won't even mention that this was her first time cooking goat. No one would ever notice. In fact, none of us are sure we believe her, the food was that awesome. And besides, who has the guts to make her professional chef debut underground cooking something she's never done? Right. No one.

As always, Dr. Ruth and Chef Renata, along with Ollie and the Gang, were great hosts. This was technically an iLIME dinner, a more informal setting for the dinner. It is a great way to experience your first underground dining experience -- it's more economical, more intimate, and all fun. 

And like me, you might discover a favorite new food, goat!

From My Little Kitchen to Nursing Home Admittance

I live alone.

This means that one day I will have to go into a nursing home, that is, unless some kind soul takes me in. It's not that I wouldn't like to live my days out in my own house, defiantly driving my old car slow, going to get my own mail in my own mailbox, and baking cookies for little neighborhood girls who are scared to eat them because of all the crazy ingredients in jars lining my kitchen ...

In short, it's just that packaging is going to send me there. That's right, packaging.

Now, at my vibrant age (no snickering back there!), it's already come to this: I can't open most chip bags, block cheese, shredded cheese, coffee bean bags, milk containers, and assundry other products. So how do I survive? The knife.

I use the tip of a knife to break the seal on the gallon of milk, cut open the chips, block cheese, and shredded cheese, and get out the scissors for the coffee beans. I even take off wine foil with knives. I need a glass of wine, ok? Well, one grey-haired day, one of my neighbors will walk in on me wielding a chef's knife against a small package of cheese and will decide that I could be a danger to myself.

And he will be right, because it's not like I can store anything either. I can't close the zip on a zippie bag (if it's torture watching, trying being the one watched). Only Hefty one-zips please, and yes, those do get stuck too. I use old hummus containers and Parmesan cheese containers to store everything, but the lid matching can make everyone feel like we're playing a sad game of matchmaker that doesn't quite match.

And let's not even mention Saran Wrap. Let's just not.

Coupons for Creativity

One of the ways life in the Little Kitchen stays exciting is through creative shopping. Grocery shopping, that is.

To me, the heart of being creative is shopping the sale. Buy it, and figure out a delicious way to use it. One of my newest ways to do this is a weekly coupon for something free from Earthfare. I signed up on the website, and each week, I receive a coupon for something awesome. Chicken (my favorite meal!). Bulk items. And this week, cherries.

Friday was a day at the Little Desk, lots of writing, lots of research, and not lots of time for food. But lunch was a 5 minute drive away.

The Flying Pig Turkey Wrap, potato salad, and the cherries, all from Earth Fare

Everything was delicious, and I fell on it like a pack of hyenas. You know what this looks like. I did not take a picture of it, k?

However, I am not being creative with the cherries. I am eating them straight out of the fridge, cool and sweet on my tongue. My friends Lindsay and Joe brought some to my house last week, and I ate all those too. This is cherry-time, sweet candy direct from the tree. 

A Basil Rekindling

Last summer, basil and I saw each other a lot. In fact, you could say that we were "going steady." I bought one of those living basil plants from Earth Fare and planted it in a pot by the front porch. It was in full sun, and it rewarded me by basically becoming a small bonsai, trimmed at least twice a week by my not-so-expert hand for pesto, salads, and garnish.

Seriously, I froze nine batches of pesto last summer, not counting the batches I made fresh and served that night. I went a little overboard. I got tired of pesto (watch your sassy mouth, you say!). But I did. I  treated my aroma-filled kitchen as just another room in my house.

My ambivalence lasted through the winter, through dinner with friends who gushed over it; in fact, my "over it" attitude was still around last week.

I had dutifully planted another basil plant this year in my new place, employing my "Go With God" method*.

As you can see,  poor 2012 edition is limping along.

There hasn't been any pesto, any Caprese Salad, and frankly, I was still feeling mostly ok with that. Until last Thursday.

It was a blazing sweaty-degrees at 10 a.m. on Thursday morning when I visited City Roots Urban Farm in Columbia. The farm shed was filled with the heady scent of basil when we arrived, and we walked through and continued to the fields, the greenhouse, the beehives, the chicken coop, and rows of basil.

Just picked basil, gone to flower

Rows of basil at City Roots

I swooned a bit.

Regaining my composure, I continued my writing research in SC's Capital City, but basil was ready to rekindle our relationship. He knew the way to my heart -- through a well-fashioned cocktail.

My first brush with him came at The Vault with a St. Germain-laced concoction garnished with basil and lemon. You had me at hello.

But then, things got serious at The Whig. We drank City Roots Basil-infused vodka cocktails, simple and as brightly green as the rows of plants from which they were derived. Oh, how I've missed you, my lovely, I thought. You with your heady licorice scent and taste of green.

The next morning, I bought a bunch to take home and fill my kitchen with the smell of pesto once again, pulling out my recipe stained with olive oil:

the simple recipe copied from Food.com

The delicious results are summer and sunshine and all things bright. And beautiful.

Just blended pesto

And after my dinner tonight, there's some to put in the freezer. I doubt we'll tire of each other again.

*"Go With God" method: Plant plant. Water plant. Check plant for the next couple of days. Talk nicely to plant. Water one more time. Cross yourself, and wish plant well. "Good luck, you now have to adapt in this ecosystem. No babying for you. Go With God."

Beach Days and Brandywine Tomatoes

Years ago, I knew Guillermo. He was from Miami. He was kind, always ready with a smile, and we sometimes talked food. He loved to cook for his boyfriend, and I loved to hear about Cuban food. One day I casually asked for his gazpacho recipe, and the next time I saw him, he handed me this:

From Memories of a Cuban Kitchen

In the world of emailed links, he'd taken the time to transcribe by hand a recipe with lots of ingredients (and I love the added comment: "I substituted cilantro instead, mmm-mmm"), and in such readable handwriting to boot.

Every time I make it I think of him and his easy smile. When I spotted this buxom Brandywine beauty at Kings Market on Edisto Island on Sunday, I knew her highest and best use -- Guillermo's gazpacho.

I counted this as three tomatoes and added a Cherokee Purple one I had left over

I had the rest of the ingredients at home -- really, it's pretty easy to have these on hand this time of year -- and so after a long beach day, I got to chopping.

The best part about this recipe is the smell of summer: cucumbers, onion, tomato, sweet pepper, cumin and garlic. It filled my kitchen with a cool freshness that still lingered the next morning. The tomato's pink flesh did not make as deep red of a finished product, but nevertheless, I think it made the recipe proud. "mmm-mmm."

An Instagram Intervention

Over the weekend, my friends staged an intervention. It wasn't for Cheez-It's, K? I've gone through the 12-step program there ...

It was for Instagram.

Marcus said to stop taking pictures of food. I said, food is all I am taking pictures of right now, unless you count new eye shadow techniques, which I promise I do not post anywhere. He said, well, fine, I'm going to unfollow you on Instagram.

Holly said, I'm not sure all of these pics are in focus. I said, but I put a filter on it. She said, That chorizo picture of it draining on a paper towel cannot be fixed by a filter. Or that picture of kale. I got a little nauseated at looking at it. I liked that picture of kale, I said. It was like an art piece.

My kale art

She just stared at me silently. So this is what it felt like.

Back when I worked at Lowcountry Living, I distinctly remember thinking on a holiday food shoot, Good God, Why is this taking so long? I mean, the food is NOT moving. It's just sitting there. How hard can it be?

Of course, since then, I have come to understand that photographing food is one of the hardest things in the photography biz. I have seen the work of amazing photographers. I bow down to them, not just because it's hard for me to do, but because they have beautiful work. They are artists. It's obvious I don't have it ...

Back to the discussion. Well, Marcus, look at this fish I made recently. It was fresh mahi, and the recipe was from Garden and Gun. It was delicious.

He chuckled, then got serious. OK ... he said, really looking at my phone in the dark. That kind of looks like caveman food. I am not really even sure what that means, but I know this -- whatever it means, he is right.

Cavemen mahi with a buerre blanc

So, while I cry in the corner, read some tutorials, and decide not to post pictures of chorizo in any form, here are some food blogs where the photography will make you swoon:

• Tartelette
• Family Fresh Cooking
• Steamy Kitchen
• Not Quite Nigella

It looks so good; wouldn't it be awesome to cook it?

The temptation of plums and a Wednesday night veggie feast

I love summer. I love it for the heat, the humidity (yep), the sound of tree frogs late in the evening, the smell of vanilla ice cream melting, and of course, the veggies.

On Sunday, I drove to Cottageville for a story. It's going to be a great story, yes, but on the way back, I hit a farmstand -- I simply had to stop. It's in my blood. Okra, plums, fresh corn, oh my. I couldn't help it. The farmer wanted me to taste the plums, and I did and threw a pit into the field of brush beyond the tent. He knew what he was doing, out there on 61 way past Summerville on a Sunday when everyone out there was out to church but me. He knew I could be tempted.

He was right. I bought more plums than one person should buy.

On Monday, Holly called and said she had veggies if I wanted. Boiled peanuts, squash, the sweetest little Persian cukes ever. And suddenly, here we are.

And so it's Wednesday. I am in the middle of a very heavy workweek, and yet, I'm hungry. I need food, although I don't want to take the time. (It's amazing to cook, but even for me, without distraction, sometime it is too much.) But when you really aren't eating processed food, there's not much of a choice. You have to do something.

I did. I threw some potatoes in the oven, sliced some tomatoes, breaded a bit of okra, and can we call that even cooking? Suddenly, I had one of those bounty dinners, those summer bounties, where you know that you gotta eat it up or it's going to go bad.

And here we are, the sound of tree frogs high after the rain, and Summer upon us with its tomatoes and cucumbers and okra that I wait for all year. I am just lucky that my boyfriend Beets didn't decide to join the party; I might not have been able to handle it.