My husband ate these like a Filet O Fish, with melted cheese on top.
I had a cold one for breakfast this morning.
They are really good. If I were a better blogger, I would have taken measurements and photos. But I didn’t. I am remiss. If I HAD taken a picture, this is what they might have looked like:
Maybe you remember Stephanie Izard from Top Chef. Maybe you’ve tried to get into her restaurant, The Girl and The Goat, in Chicago and have either been turned away or given a dinner reservation for 4:30 or 10:15. Or maybe not. If you don’t know of her, you should. Her passion for using all of an animal in her food (she even saves the fat from different types of protein and puts them in a bread she calls, fittingly, “Fat Bread”) would make a caveman proud. Continue reading
When I tell people I’m a yoga teacher, they respond in predictable ways. Most of them say something like, “Oh, I’ve tried yoga/I can’t do yoga because I’m completely inflexible/can’t balance/can’t sit still,” or some variation thereof. Others assume I have an advanced physical practice and can perform acrobatics on the level of gymnast or maybe even a cast member of Cirque de Soleil.
And some think that I’m enlightened. Continue reading
Holy bacon on a stick, Batman. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?
Oh yeah… I did and simply couldn’t execute on it. Now I don’t have to.
I grew up eating brown ‘n serve sausage links on Sundays, cooked to a crisp by my Jewish suburban mother. I loved the crunch and the salty grease that exploded into my mouth with every bite. But most of all, I loved the flavor–the sage, garlic, salt, and whatever else was in it that made it so good.
Now, as any fan of Pulp Fiction knows, pigs are filthy animals.
Even pastured pigs will eat their own young… or worse. When it comes to pork–bacon, sausage, even my beloved carnitas–I need to exercise moderation. I’ve tried to make sausage with other meats, like turkey or beef, but I just couldn’t find the correct blend of seasonings to get that magic in my mouth.
Until now. Continue reading
When I was eleven years old, my dad told me that I had inherited his thrifty genes and that I would need to be vigilant to avoid putting on too much weight. Ever since then, I’ve always felt overly large to varying degrees. In fact, other than the time my dad and I had a contest to see whose stomach stuck out the most (I was four years old–and he won), the only time in my life when my body felt perfect just the way it was was about seven years ago. Coincidentally–or maybe not–I stopped eating emotionally and compulsively. Within a period of six months, I lost about twenty pounds. Continue reading