Remember the episode of “Sex and the City” (I think it was titled “Freak Show”) where the girls are bemoaning the freaks they seem to attract even though they’re all so normal only to then have Carrie tear into her new boyfriend’s drawers and closet (whole apartment really) for clues about his possible freakiness? While carnival music plays in the background she realizes, upon getting totally busted by this nice, totally benign guy, that she’s actually the freak show...

Well, it was me who was Le Freak (not so chic!) this week, even though I pride myself on my almost pathologically boring, non-craziness and I really, really am loathe to refer to Sex and the City after that truly shiteous sequel.

This is the point where the Tiny Dancer might want to avert her eyes and skip to the recipe (sorry, Mom)...

I had a date. Cue the carnival music.

There’s this famous chef who is a tad portly and has been known to wear orange clogs (let’s just call him Mario). He has also been known to say “soup sucks.” And while it may be true that I have a somewhat fragile sensibility, and it may also be true that this “Let’s Just Call Him Mario” guy is most definitely one of the greatest living chefs, I have to fervently disagree with him on this point. It might actually be the one thing I could ever go croc to croc with him about.

I mean, really, what kind of culinary scrooge do you have to be to hate soup?

Soup is universal. Every culture makes it in some form or fashion.

Soup is communal. What other dish is served from a single pot around a table?

Soup is economical. You can feed a lot of people with few fresh ingredients.

Soup can be a whole meal onto itself. What other course of dining is so all-encompassing?

Soup is humble but can be a full expression of subtle (or bold) flavor.

Soup is patient, soup is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast (unless it wins a Beard Award and then watch out, it turns into a real douche), it is not proud (unless it gets a shout-out in Bon Appetit). It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs (unless it’s name is Bourdain; well, not really-- I’m IN LOVE with that guy). Soup does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Not to be grandiose or anything.

PostedSeptember 8, 2010

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriesvegetarian, soup

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I’ve been home from Italy for a week now, and I can no longer claim jet lag as a reasonable explanation for my lack of posting; I’m going to sum up, with as much efficiency as I can muster, the last tidbits of the soupapolooza! goes to Italy summer.

There was a shin-dig for Ferragosto, which is an Italian holiday that has something to do with the ascension of Mary, but don’t ask me what that means since I was raised by godless heathens, thankyouverymuch. But nonetheless, Bossy and I chose to celebrate this holiday by braising a shinbone (called a “stinco” in Italian, tee-hee) and inviting our international friends over for some drunken reveling.

There were also two more trips into Florence, both unsuccessful in their promise of the now unicorn-like vintage silver gelato spoons. On the first excursion, a Sunday, we blindly brought the Cinquecento into the city center without consulting a map. It wasn’t pretty, made even less pretty when we found ourselves squeezing (and screeching) down a one-way street exactly the wrong way. We did get another excellent lunch and dinner (pizza!!!) with Beefcake and the Baron before we drove back to Panicale, dejected and stuffed.

It’s not every day that you walk by François Mitterand on the road to Paciano. Unless, of course, your friend, the Bossy Blonde, has decided that the flattened frog on your morning walk should have a name and that it should be of a dead French man, and that she only knows of one. I am totally in favor of this. I am decidedly all for the anthropomorphizing of any and everything (I have named all of the cars I’ve ever owned, obnoxiously enough) and why not memorialize the man whose last meal was a tribute to the particularly cruel, yet delicious, cuisine of his homeland (the outlawed eating of ortolan, anyone) by naming roadkill after him?

Anyway, after two full weeks of the daily sighting of Monsieur Mitterand in all his squashed glory, he was absent today, no longer a mile marker for my morning routine, having most likely been washed away in the torrential, unseasonable downpour we had in Umbria on Saturday. A storm that started just as our poor, mistreated and overworked Fiat gasped back into town after a ridiculous “little drive” that should have taken 45 minutes.

We had set out to go to a cheese factory outside of Todi with the idea to then carry on to Orvieto for some lunch and bubbles, but it quickly devolved from a great plan into a two and a half hour carnival ride on roads that Bossy later described as like “driving on radiatore, radiator shaped pasta” through the insane mountainous landscape. It was BRUTAL, and only salvageable as a day because there was CHEESE (my favorite being the black truffle pecorino) at the finish line at Caseificio Montecristo.

A bird pooped on my head and down my shirt this last Sunday, which only further bolsters my long brewing animosity towards nature. I’m not a happy camper, quite literally, and I’ve never understood why sleeping outside of four walls and a roof is any more magical than driving out to a location well beyond the lights of the city to marvel at the stars and then returning to a place with a hot shower and clean sheets. I don’t need or have any desire to wake up, dirty, with a creaky back and caffeine withdrawal, only to hike back to my overheated car, no thank you.

Two of my fellow ‘paloozians had milestone birthdays within two days of each other this week, and though I will not repeat that scary number (scary at least to single girls with pet children), it rhymes with worty, which no one wants to be except Madonna who, in a fit of good Kabbalah luck was “enlightened” at worty.

Anyway, in an impromptu celebration of these two women, a few of our rag tag crew drove up north of Santa Barbara to a very beautiful state park and went glamping. No, that was not a typo; we went “glamorous camping”, which I would argue, is as much an oxymoron as jumbo shrimp. What exactly is glamping you ask? Glamping basically consists of a few steps. One: drive to a very nice campground in your Prius (for the record and as I stated earlier, the environment and I are not exactly facebook friends, so obviously the Prius belongs to someone else-- I prefer my cars to get less than 14 MPG) which will be weighted down with three ice chests full of such necessities as carrot cake, israeli couscous salad, artisanal goat cheese, truffle sausage and fig jam. Next, pay the nice lady in the log cabin the cost of a very nice piece of furniture for two nights, spend the next hour unpacking the car and then apply bug spray before settling in to your posh camp house, which is really just a re-branded mobile home made to look like a log cabin. And finally, after all this, order your BBQ kit consisting of hamburger, fixins, tools and ingredients to make s’mores, to be delivered directly to your fire pit for dinner.

PostedJuly 21, 2010

Authormelissa mcclure

Categoriessalad, vegetarian

Tagssalad, glamping, dried cherry, recipe, roasted beets, worty instead of 40, walnut, the great pothole of 39, blue cheese, beets, cabrales, not a friend of mother earth, Leggsy McGhee, a bird pooped on my head, Innercity Velvet, Maria-Hold-the-Eggs, Jihad Jenni

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cream of red bell pepper: roses are red and so is my face

pasta e fagioli with homemade pesto: who says "soup sucks?"

olive oil gelato: the Baron of the Borgo, Bossy, Beefcake and Bologna... and a club sandwich at the Four Seasons

cannellini soup: A road to Rome isn’t necessarily the road to Rome

roasted beet, cabrales, dried cherry and toasted walnut arugula salad: rock out, whatever

Why? Because soup is cheap, delicious and easy. Kind of like me.

a weekly attempt to eat well and to savor life. or to see how much food I can get on my clothes.