Sharing stories of food stories we love.
I've written about this soup before, but it merits revisiting. Each time I cook it, I find myself on the phone with my mother, or my sister, or a friend, vehemently explaining how good it is, as if they have nothing better to do than drop everything and make soup.
But if they did, and if you do, I promise you'll thank me.
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Last night: New York City. At a bar in Tribeca, I drink two prickly pear margaritas in quick succession; the alcohol heightens my senses. I need food, and I step outside into the night to hail a cab.
Heading uptown: The streets rush past in a blur of neon lights. In mere minutes I speed past dozens of neighborhoods, hundreds of apartments, thousands of people.
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If you're ever having a bad day, here's what to do. Buy two yellow onions. Slice them into thin half-moon shapes. Heat some olive oil on medium-low heat in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Slide the sliced onions into the pan. The oil will sizzle and hiss in protest. Grab a worn wooden spoon and stand at the stove. Push the onions around the pan occasionally, watching them slowly turn from white to translucent to golden brown to a dark, caramelized brown sugar color.
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The weather in July is postcard-worthy on the farm. Everything is lush and full and vibrantly green. The sky is a bright primary blue; fat white clouds drift across it, looking close enough to touch. I take a bike ride in the morning. I cycle past wide fields striped with perfectly geometric lines of tall corn, white painted farmhouses, horse pastures bordered by weathered gray fences that sag in the center.
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I reach over to finish the last sip of my cocktail. A sweet, fizzy blend of muddled blackberries, tequila, lime juice, and club soda, we've named it The 157 and declared it our official apartment cocktail. Dinner is finished. The counter is strewn with dishes: a cutting board, bowls scraped clean, forks.
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