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.
Ingredients
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
Directions
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.
Salad Days
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.
Poetry
Chinatown Diptych
By Jenny Xie
I.
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.
II.
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)
Music
No comments:
Post a Comment