I grew up in a divisive chocolate chip cookie household. I wanted to just sit around and eat raw cookie dough, but my mom wanted to bake them and then keep baking them: thin, crisp, what we might even call “burned” or, as a friend has it, “culinary brown”.
Tonight’s dinner menu is brought to you by this beautiful coffee table decoration that doubles as a cookbook:
Upon hearing that dinner was going to be a frittata (boring — I love breakfast for dinner as much as the next gal but when you eat an egg sandwich almost every morning, doing it again ten hours later just seems uninspired), I opened cookbook nearest my hand for some more out-of-the-ordinary inspiration. That cookbook happened to be Fire and Ice, a cloth-covered photo-essay-cum-“home-cooking”-expedition through the Great White North.