The Proper Binge

Note to self (and other locals): Homemade mozzarella in Somerville- Get some!

via fioredinonno.com

Sooner rather than later I'll sit down and actually crank out a real post with words and thoughts and maybe even a recipe. But this new blogging interface has this nifty feature- a "Blog It!" browser bookmarklet that pops up a microblogging layer on top of your current page and lets you, well, blog about it. Don't forget that I'm an internet geek as well as a food geek, so this kind of stuff gets me going. Hurray for the social web.

Anyway, I've heard of Fiore di Nonno, a cheesemaker based in Somerville, and have been meaning to try some of their mozzarella. Fresh mozzarella is one of those pure and perfect foods that is at its best when joined on the plate by only a pure and perfect tomato, a gentle drizzle of olive oil and a tease of fleur de sel. Sigh.
I especially love the buffalo milk variety (buffala) for it's distinct tang and it's sublime creaminess, but I am absolutely dying to try some burrata, which is, in essence, mozzarella filled with cream. Sounds dreadful, no?

According to their site, Fiore di Nonno products are available at just about all the usual local foodie haunts, including Dave's Fresh Pasta, both Formaggio locations, and at the Kickass Cupcakes Dairy Bar. They also sell at a number of farmer's markets, and apparently, also will be selling at the pick-up location for the winter CSA I'm hoping to buy into...more details on that later. Assuming it works out, I'll be receiving three 38lb shares of kale, squashes, turnips, dried beans and other rooty goodness. I am all aflutter just imagining the soups, stews, and pickles I'd invent with my harvest.

Add this to the holiday gift repertoire

via www.nytimes.com

I've managed to hold myself back from jumping on the bacon bandwagon for the most part (I'm still eager to try the fat-washing technique for bacon-infused bourbon, though, just as an experiment, mostly), but this sounds like a real winner. Ever since my grandfather would fish me out one of the salty hunks of milk chocolate that he'd drop into a jar of roasted peanuts, I've been a salty-sweet fanatic. Think I'll try this one out for the holidays, to expand my confection-making repertoire.

Nobody here but us chickens...

That's what my Grandma used to say, when it was just the two of us in the kitchen. This always made me feel like we were up to something, members of a club whose inside jokes would be hushed should some interloper try to cop on.

The kitchen, of course, is the hub of the house, the nexus of all comings and goings, so you wouldn't expect that such a highly trafficked place would be a likely spot for sharing confidences. But it is, you see, because there is a language, there are gestures, there is a code that's universal among those in the know.

Come on in if you're curious. Door's always open, and there's room at the table.

There's nobody here but us chickens.