Tag Archives: Oysters

Ode to Lacey, O’ Queen of My Foodie Heart

19 May

Recently my beautiful friend Lacey invited my friends Scott, Mary, and myself to her idyllic lake house where she lives over for dinner. All I knew is that she said the key words needed to invoke my interest: barbecue, mojitos, and “private dock.” I’m in, duh.

She went bananas with the food, as she is wont to do since she is, especially when it comes to cooking, an ambitious tornado. Lacey has taught me the most about cooking, and when we worked together I learned new things every day. Even at a casual dinner, she teaches without pretension, which I adore. Here she casually murders a crab while some dreamy, cute music plays in the background. That is the essence of why I adore Lacey: she can disembowel a living sea creature while, you know, just hanging out. What a dreamboat.

 

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There were artichokes.

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And because she is ambitious and too generous, there were oysters. And crab. And new york steaks. Strawberry balsamic salad with feta, asparagus, angel food cake, and mojitos loaded with mint. Just like in that tragic scene from Dirty Dancing, I brought a watermelon. I was Baby. Clueless! Luckily there were no swarthy, gyrating Patrick Swayzes around to make me feel idiotic.

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As usual, she was gracious and welcoming. I recently picked up a hostessing handbook from the 50s at a rummage sale and ate up all the antiquated traditions listed in its pages. Not only did we break all those rules (no fingering the asparagus, elbows were all over the table, and certainly I was guilty of speaking with my mouth full), but it was positively perfect that way. If I were to write a book on hostessing, it would be a single sentence. It would read, “Just do whatever Lacey does.”

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The steaks rose like relics! Look at them! They were a work of art. And when it came to oysters she showed me a thing or two.

And then we slurped them down like an underwater circus act, rolled up our sleeves and ate the grilled piles of luxury like it was no big deal. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: when I grow up I wanna be Lacey.

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foodbrained

9 May

So much is going on in my hamster wheel of a life I’ve neglected writing yet again for the drool-inducing solace of the rapidly declining pile of food memoirs on my dresser. Yeah, I guess you have to stoke the fire every once in awhile, so after polishing off Two For The Road  I devoured Waiter Rant, which was really not all that ranty, considering. Today I began The Tenth Muse, and am approximately 56 pages in love with the damn thing. It’s been a real foodcentric day for me- for mother’s day mom and I spent a solid hour and a half in a co-op halfway between her house and mine, picking out some thyme and sea salt tortas (I loved their wax papered, hand-wrapped packaging… though the crisps themselves weren’t bad either!) from Seville, Purple Haze Cypress Grove chevre, raspberries, some aranciata SanPellegrinos and a raisin molasses cookie for dessert.

After taking with mom on the riverbank over our handpicked goodies, we headed our separate ways. I’ve been battling a cough that currently demands as much attention from me as a repeated bludgeoning of the balls (or so I would imagine, anyway), and my attention was doled out in the form of soup. I figured something spicy and brothy would be good for me (and the equally achey C, who caught my “allergies” pretty quick… oops, sorry, guess I didn’t develop new allergies at the age of 23 after all!?), so I threw together a wannabe pho, packed it with shrimp and called it good. Now I’m turning in and waiting for the Nyquil to (hopefully) vaporize my brain into a sleepy puddle of (non work-related) dreams. Oh, yeah, and I left my cook job. That’s a long story, and one I’ve decided to mark “not internet appropriate,” since there’s some of animosity in my parting… anyhow my last day was Friday and though last night my sleep was riddled with total-chaos/ULTRA STRESS ZONE dreams, I’m hoping that my subconscious will catch on to the fact that I’m not there every day and will shortly allow my dreams to get back to their regularly scheduled programming. You know, of like, headless centaurs floating through the rafters of a vacation home your parents abandoned you at, or your friends emerging from beneath a giant pile of hookers in a clearly marked “HIV POSITIVE ZONE.” What, you don’t dream like that? My dreams are a hoot, and I’d like them back asap. I think I’ll drift off to Netflix Instant Streaming “Kings of Pastry,” now. Oh, and what the hell, have a photo of the ginger vodka freshwater oyster shooters my friends and I downed last Thursday (coincidentally it was Cinco de Mayo, but we’d forgotten that when we chose a Louisiana eatery). They were… well, as a lover of all things shellfish, it was awesome. It was also crazy fucking weird. And with that last eloquent sentence, I can see that the Nyquil has begun to take effect. So, goodnight!

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