Arizona blooming palm
Good day, chefs. Could we as humans be blossoming as a species in the summer of 2020? We know we're some of the lucky people who are eating well.
Kay writes: Preparing for lots of margaritas and/or grilled tequila lime chicken, an Ina Garten favorite. Marinate the chicken overnight or for two to three hours.
Take the chicken out of the marinade and brush the meat with olive oil or whatever oil you like to keep the chicken from sticking to the grill. Here's the recipe link.
1/2 cup gold tequila
1 cup freshly squeezed lime juice (5 to 6 limes)
1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice (2 oranges)
1 tablespoon chili powder
1 tablespoon minced fresh jalapeno pepper (1 pepper seeded)
1 tablespoon minced fresh garlic (3 cloves)
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3 whole (6 split) boneless chicken breasts, skin on
Combine the tequila, lime juice, orange juice, chili powder, jalapeno pepper, garlic, salt, and pepper in a large bowl. Add the chicken breasts. Refrigerate overnight.
Heat a grill with coals and brush the rack with oil to prevent the chicken from sticking.
Remove the chicken breasts from the marinade, sprinkle well with salt and pepper, and grill them skin-side down for about 5 minutes, until nicely browned. Turn the chicken and cook for another 10 minutes, until just cooked through. Remove from the grill to a plate. Cover tightly and allow to rest for 5 minutes. Serve hot or at room temperature.
Tomatoes in the time of Covid
JAZ sent this photo, made with produce from her local organic market.
It's an illustrative exercise to eat produce only from the CSA along with what we're growing. In that spirit, we turned to canned artichoke hearts, roasted red pepper in a jar, and kalamata olives, tossed with still more greens from our gardens here.
To finish, fried haloumi and roasted pecans.
By Jenny Xie
The face of Chinatown returns its color,
plucked from July's industrial steamer.
Dry the cup!
So we do.
Four noodle shops on East Broadway release their belches collectively.
They breed in me a hankering for family life.
Here, there's no logic to melons and spring onions exchanging hands.
No rhythm to men's briefs clothes-pinned to the fire escape.
Retirees beneath the Manhattan Bridge leak hearsay.
The woman in Apartment #18 on Bayard washes her feet in pot of boiled
water each evening before bedtime. But every handful of weeks she lapses.
I lean into the throat of summer.
Perched above these streets with whom I share verbs and adjectives.
Faces knotted, bangs softened with grease.
The East River pulls along a thread of sun.
While Sunday slides in. Again, in those plain trousers.
How the heat is driven off course.
How one can make out the clarified vowels of bridges.
Who’s keeping count of what’s given against what’s stolen?
There's nothing I can't trace back to my coarse immigrant blood.
Uncles tipple wine on the streets of Mott and Bayard.
Night shifts meet day shifts in passing.
Sweat seasons the body that labors.
And in each noodle shop, bowls dusted with salt.
Phyllis's vegetable garden
(I spy tomato, basil, lettuce, and cilantro)