Blood at the bone
A view of my dinner
This post, most assuredly, will not be about dinner. Or, not only about dinner, let’s say. For, how can one write only about food without being stultifying. Food — the making of it, the enjoying of it — is always about so much more.
Right now, the bone of the chicken thigh I just broiled, after a quick marination in lemon, olive oil, garlic, tarragon, and thyme, is glaring red. That’s because it was raw at the bone. And that’s because I didn’t allow the thighs to come completely to room temperature before popping them in the broiler. It was still good, but not amazing. It was a bit tough — also an effect of rushing the cooking when the chicken was still too cold.
But, it’s okay because it’s the first meat-y thing I’ve eaten in… quite a while. So, it hit the spot. I was hungry.
I haven’t been starving myself exactly, but I think things (things like the pantry, and my stomach) have been leaner for the past three or four weeks.
It’s ostensibly because I’m moving and didn’t want to buy a bunch of food that would then also have to be moved.
So, I stopped buying groceries a few weeks ago. Except for tonight that is, when I broke down on the way home from dance class, suddenly remembering there is a rather good little market that prides itself on quality food…
