Last December, on a gray but bright Friday morning, I rolled out of bed earlier than normal to go on a breakfast date. Yes: I chose to walk out the door and into the cold about an hour before I normally would in order to have a cup of coffee with someone I’d never met. And you know what? I would highly recommend it.
I have a deep fondness for cooking gadgets that you might think have no business being in my tiny New York kitchen. A spiralizer? Yes, please! A mandolin? Don’t mind if I do. An immersion blender? You bet. They take up space that I don’t have, and yes I could make do with a chef’s knife instead, but I use all of these incredibly specific kitchen devices.
Bottarga ruined my husband’s whole Sunday. We’d met some friends at a newish trattoria known for their lavish, Italian-accented brunch menu, and pretty much ordered the whole darned thing. Passing around food is never his favorite thing, but he was game, spooning a little from each passed dish and sampling. I stuck a fork into a yellow-flecked tangle of pasta, twirled, and took a bite.
I was young enough when my family got our butter keeper that I don’t remember it not being in our kitchen. It sat right next to the toaster oven.