Monday, October 7, 2013
A pink evening. This was Sunday.
I don't know what came over me. I cooked like a fiend. Too-many Berkshire pork chops, roasted with grapes and rooftop rosemary branches in the oven. Two apples whole, in their own pan, beneath. A tray of those delectable squashed potatoes hissing beside them, scattered with chopped garlic and preserved lemon. And then there were the marrow bones. Small dishes of black currant chutney and pickled mustard.
The weekend's activity was intense - and shouldered heavily by the Frenchman. He carried all the boxes destined for Harlem, in out and down and up again. He fetched and drove the truck. Then he took apart the book cases and the bed. Then he lay down.
I cooked. And I shook pink cocktails. Red currant gin with a slosh of sumac vodka and a squeeze of lime: tart, tannic, fresh. I sipped and chopped. The revived Frenchman watched a movie. Then we tackled the pork chops. With melting roast apple, and crisp potato and wobbly, parsleyed marrow.
And glasses of prosecco. Of course.
Our last Sunday supper in Brooklyn.
[ And a nice bonus for today - a lovely review of 66 Square Feet on Apartment Therapy's theKitchn]