Cheese Tortellini Soup with Smoked Sausage, Fennel, and Kale November 2004

Since the 2004 election cast me into a whirling vortex of fear and loathing, the only food I can reliably expect to keep down is soup. For the first few days it was clear broth, but gradually I've worked up to enormous soupal statements like this one. The key, if you want to prevent your smoked sausage from turning into listless pucks of demoralized gristle, is to brown it, then take it out while you cook the rest of the soup, then chuck it back in again at the end.

Brunswick Stew November 2004

A dowdy chicken and lima bean stew from a 19th century recipe. Like much of the cuisine of the Deep South to which white cooks now lay claim, it was invented by a slave, who made his ur-stew with squirrel and bread crumbs. Bursts with the taste of homely ante-bellum prosperity. Sticks to the ribs. In a pot-pie topped with bisuits, it is a consummation devoutly to be wished.

Chicken with White Wine Shallot Sauce, Egg Noodles November 2004

These photos are starting to take on the look and feel of 70's cookbooks. I'm not sure why.

Soba Noodles with Sesame and Cucumber, November 2004

The usual sesame noodle recipe with peanut butter and tahini and vinegar and garlic and soy sauce and red chile. It suddenly dawns on me that this dish would work with cashews, too. I mean, why wouldn't it?

TV Dinner Three-Bean Soup, Premium Saltines, Marlboro Lights, Chianti, November 2004

I ate this while watching a detective show on PBS, the one directed by inscrutable Navajo shaman Robert Redford. It features murder, intrigue, pretty scenery, and evil spirits on the Res. Crappy dialog, though. To wit:

Joe Leaphorn breaks from the action to moralize on the only thing that all white people know about native Americans: alcoholism. "If I had one wish it would be to get rid of booze." What does he mean?"No more scotch, no more bourbon, no more vodka or gin."

Oh, that kind of booze.

Lemon-Scented Flounder, Buttered Broccoli, November 2004

This may look to you like a listless, dried-out old fish stick, but that's only because I'm no photographer. I'm here to tell you, there is nothing in the world like an immaculately fresh flounder fillet lightly breaded in panko and lemon zest, and sauteed in garlic butter by a genius such as myself. The fish who gave its life for this exquisite dish will always be a hero to me.