Blogger.com tells me that one person reached my blog by searching google for "sevilla worst nightmare". I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I hope that person found whatever it is they were looking for. :)
In other news, dear blog, I just wanted to tell you that I would like to revive you. Or recreate you. I haven't entirely decided which. This is my dilemma -- that even a menial task, such as creating a new blog, brings with it philosophical complications that I cannot entirely resolve.
Anyway, we'll talk shortly.
3/17/2013
1/26/2013
If at first you don't succeed...
Last Friday night, after a nice sunny day, Regina Spektor singing to me all afternoon, I decided to do something special to make it an over-the-top good day. I looked up a recipe for Solomillo al Whisky, (pork in whiskey sauce--my favorite Spanish tapa), and I ran to the supermarket to pick up the supplies that I was missing (and I don't know, maybe an alcoholic beverage or two.) If all went right, it was going to be a great Friday night.
Before I even began working on the recipe, before I took the solomillo out of the refrigerator or started separating dientes of garlic, I thought I'd be smart by getting a head start on the fried potatoes to accompany the main dish. It occurred to me that the Mandoline slicer would make perfectly even potato slices, so I got it out and got to work. One and a half potatoes in, I caught my knuckle on the blade and found myself stunned by the wound it left on my middle finger. I couldn't believe what I had done! After wrapping it in a paper towel and holding it for a minute, I called my brother in to take a look. I needed a second opinion. He suggested I call my mom, the nurse. Without question, she recommended a trip to the ER. Being a hand wound, I couldn't very well drive myself, so my neighbor kindly gave me a ride to the hospital.
The verdict? Stitches. Three of them. The first stitches I've ever had. (I'd post a picture here, but I figured I'd spare you the image. Those black little stitches look so menacing on my daintily painted finger.)
Needless to say, my cooking ventures were put on hold.
Undeterred by my injury, I decided to try again last night, though this time I left the potato slicing to my mom. I'm happy to report that we incurred no injuries the second time around.
The solomillo turned out splendidly. (Okay, so it didn't exactly compete with Los Coloniales... but it wasn't bad for my first time.) The only thing missing was the ice cold Cruzcampo.
If at first you don't succeed, (even if you find yourself being stitched together in the ER), try again. This second attempt was totally worth it.
Before I even began working on the recipe, before I took the solomillo out of the refrigerator or started separating dientes of garlic, I thought I'd be smart by getting a head start on the fried potatoes to accompany the main dish. It occurred to me that the Mandoline slicer would make perfectly even potato slices, so I got it out and got to work. One and a half potatoes in, I caught my knuckle on the blade and found myself stunned by the wound it left on my middle finger. I couldn't believe what I had done! After wrapping it in a paper towel and holding it for a minute, I called my brother in to take a look. I needed a second opinion. He suggested I call my mom, the nurse. Without question, she recommended a trip to the ER. Being a hand wound, I couldn't very well drive myself, so my neighbor kindly gave me a ride to the hospital.
The verdict? Stitches. Three of them. The first stitches I've ever had. (I'd post a picture here, but I figured I'd spare you the image. Those black little stitches look so menacing on my daintily painted finger.)
Needless to say, my cooking ventures were put on hold.
Undeterred by my injury, I decided to try again last night, though this time I left the potato slicing to my mom. I'm happy to report that we incurred no injuries the second time around.
If at first you don't succeed, (even if you find yourself being stitched together in the ER), try again. This second attempt was totally worth it.
1/25/2013
1/11/2013
When Life Gives You Lemons...
Metaphorically, I've encountered many lemons in the midst of a gloomy Pittsburgh winter. But I find it a little ironic that the only time life has literally given me lemons was while I was living in Sevilla.
One early spring day, I unexpectedly found myself in possession of some homegrown lemons simply because a coworker had pulled them off of her tree and thought to bring them to me. (A gesture that strikes me as so typically Andalusian.) In the literal sense, life handing me lemons was a welcome and friendly surprise that forever changed the meaning of that overused refrain.
When I received those lemons, my first thought was to pour a strong gin and tonic. I could definitely go for one of those right about now. ;)
...But don't worry, I did make some lemonade, too.
One early spring day, I unexpectedly found myself in possession of some homegrown lemons simply because a coworker had pulled them off of her tree and thought to bring them to me. (A gesture that strikes me as so typically Andalusian.) In the literal sense, life handing me lemons was a welcome and friendly surprise that forever changed the meaning of that overused refrain.
When I received those lemons, my first thought was to pour a strong gin and tonic. I could definitely go for one of those right about now. ;)...But don't worry, I did make some lemonade, too.
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