Overnight Oatmeal

You may recall that I'm beginning to think that breakfast is great. It's especially great on mornings when needing to be out of the door at 7 in the morning, ready to start the day, smile, tell you're coworkers you're great, thanks, how are you when really you're ashamed about yawning too much and wondering when it's no longer to soon for coffee. On these types of mornings, which are increasingly becoming my types of mornings, it is particularly great not only to eat breakfast, but to have it be prepared well before you are.

One potato, two potato...

A woman of habit, one who finds comfort in routine and is only slightly prone to biases, I like to eat what I've known. For example, matzoh balls. I won't stand for anything fluffy, anything large and airy that allows a spoon to glide effortlessly through. I love them dense. Heavy and hard, like golf balls, my mom says. They're what I was raised on.

I just envision certain foods a certain way, and most often, that way is the way that my mom prepares them, the way that her mom prepared them, the way that I've always had them.


It is no surprise that I'm partial to my mother's potato salad. I'm no stranger to variations and find no fault in these different types, but I strongly believe that of the many makes, one is superior, fool-proof, and decidedly remarkable. I have backing. And it's not from my siblings.

I heart your tart

The Internet connection at work died for several hours today. That was when I realized that absolutely every single one of my tasks requires the use of the World Wide Web. At first the break was comical. The hallways erupted with alarm, a domino chain of irritation, as neighbors of the shared office space scampered through the hallway: "Is it on for you?" "What about your phones?" "Howaboutnow?"

It's hard to look busy when there's really nothing to do. Like the others, I too became frustrated, refreshing my homepage every three seconds, or so, sighing often, growing sleepy. Everyone would be happier, I thought, if the owners mollified us with ice cream. Others seemed to think a rent deduction would be a better fix.

Ice cream never came, and it was over three hours before the Internet did.

Cooking for one

Two years ago following a Saturday night Halloween celebration, I developed a very wonderful secret habit. It stemmed from another not-so-secret habit of mine: whenever I enter my home I head straight to the kitchen, usually to the spot where I am wedged comfortably between the fridge door and its shelves - easy access to leftovers, whipped cream, and the like.

The problem with habit number one two years ago, way back when I was living in my beautiful pink-walled Montreal apartment, was that save for eggs, plain yogurt, and a head of cauliflower, my refrigerator shelves were routinely bare.

True to habit when I returned home in boozy splendor that Saturday I marched straight toward to the kitchen, but I couldn't face the sadness that was my empty refrigerator. Cauliflower wasn't really going satiate my late-night hankering for something carby and delicious. My pantry was better equipped than my fridge. I had pasta, and a plan - simple as could be, and outrageously satisfying.

The type of cookie you'll make twice

Though these are a Passover dessert, I can't imagine anyone who would not like them. Unlike the packaged Manischewitz macaroons of my youth, these are decadently sweet, full of texture and color.


I first made them last year, when I was living in Montreal. The first batch was devoured so avidly - by Passover-observers and coconut lovers alike - that I was compelled to whip out another for my family before heading back to New Jersey for the holiday.

These may be perfect for Passover, but I'd gladly eat them year-round.

When you make chicken soup...

'Twas the weekend before Passover and my mom was in menu mode. Cookbooks, magazines, and newspaper clippings cluttered the counter, the messy piles burgeoning as the week went on.

Though guests were limited to immediate family this year, my mother was still plagued by the usual planning predicaments: which of of the three flourless chocolate cake recipes she should make - with almonds or not? - and should the charoset have dried fruit or just nuts. Clasping recipes she cornered me in the laundry room for consultation. Almonds sound good, as does some fruit in the charoset, and let's have fruit for dessert as well, while we're at it.

Working woman

Gosh! It's been a week already since I've been here last. Don't think I haven't been counting the days. While this may look like a legitimate post, I must assure you it is nothing more than saving face, a quick hello, and a lame excuse.

The truth is I'm pooped. Today marks the end of my first week on the new job. It's really gone swimmingly so far; I'm settled, productive, and almost accustomed to waking at seven to make the potholed trek from New Jersey to Brooklyn. At the end of the day I am thoroughly exhausted, feeble as a floppy doll, incapable of writing so much as an email.

That means while I have spent a great deal of time thinking about food (mainly baked eggs and polenta) I have approached the stove only to taste what others have cooked for me. While that's fine and dandy, I do miss fending for myself, and I'm so looking forward to next week when the shock of adjustment fades and I will no longer end my days so depleted.

Thanks for bearing with me.