So here we are – the last long weekend of the summer. It’s been a bizarre summer, to say the least, but I still managed to sip a few cocktails outdoors, grill to my heart’s content, and swim in a large body of water. Sure, I didn’t see as many friends as I would’ve liked and I didn’t get to visit my family in Nova Scotia. But even with the drawbacks bought to us by COVID, this summer has been pretty ok. But I will confess I am excited for running without oppressive humidity and mugs of mulled wine. There is a lot to love about summer and there’s a lot to love about fall. So instead of mourning the summer that was, I’m going to give it a proper send-off with a platter as exuberant as it was. Say hello to these Everything Bagel Pretzel Dogs.
My house has been converted into a pub. It’s also assumed the role of a taco stand, transformed itself into a noodle bar, and delivered its best impression of a high-end bistro. And just this past week it did its very best to convince me it was a pizzeria and although I’m not particularly gullible, I almost believed it. That probably had less to do with the candlelight and more to do with this Sausage Rapini Skillet Pizza. This pizza was so decadent that I legitimately felt like I’d had a night out after I ate it. The only difference was I didn’t require an Uber in order to crash land on my bed. Yet another weird quarantine perk.
This was supposed to be a dessert. It was supposed to be a festive and Easter-y treat… but also unleavened to acknowledge the Jewish half of this household. But as you can clearly see, this Bacon and Egg Fried Rice is not a dessert. I mean, unless you have a fairly loose definition of the term “dessert”. Very loose…and weird.
I wanted cassoulet the other day and that is essentially why this pot of Baked White Beans happened. Lately, memorable restaurant meals have been flitting before my eyes. I dream of the agnolotti from my favorite Italian haunt and revisit every slurp of ramen and sip of ice-cold beer I experienced at the izakaya down the street. But mostly, I am haunted by memories of the cassoulet from La Palette on Queen West here in Toronto. And it’s not just the dish itself, it’s the staff, the decor, everything I felt sitting at that handsome bar. But I won’t be sitting at that bar again anytime soon. And I somehow doubt there is Toulouse sausage within walking distance from my house.
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