All art and no cupcakes would make for a suboptimal long weekend

My plan for tomorrow is to wake up very early, catch a bus, sleep a little more, then wake up in NYC for lunch. Woo hoo! for taking a day off and getting out of town.

The impetus for this trip is the Tigers of Wrath: Watercolors of Walton Ford exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum. I picked up what must have been an exhibition catalog for an exhibit much like this one a couple of years ago, and was just fascinated by it. I ended my review of the book by saying I hope I will have the opportunity to stand in front of his paintings and be in awe in person.

There is much else to see at the Brooklyn Museum now, and I’ll check out the Annie Leibovitz exhibition and the freaky Ron Mueck sculptures. I’m not sure if there is access to the visible storage on the weekends, but I hope so. Ectopia at the International Center of Photography museum closes after this weekend, so we’ll probably get over there, too.

In between all the art, we will probably go cupcake hunting. I don’t think I can pass up the chance to see these little monsters — unless it is to try out Burgers & Cupcakes in Chelsea, in the same spot where Krispy Kreme first came to town. If all goes well, there will be digital and possibly polaroid evidence of my travels, but no leftovers.

Why I don’t cook more often

If you spend more time in the kitchen than I do you probably already know this, but just in case, let me tell you something: do not touch the side of your George Foreman Grill when it is plugged in.

A reasonable person might be thinking, isn’t the hot part on the inside? You know, with the ridges that make the stripes on your food? Well, yes. But there is also this exposed metal line of pain on the outside. One that will leave a blister on one of a reasonable person’s good typing fingers.

You have been warned.

A Nut in the Kitchen

After last post’s political rant, and the weekend’s sad and incomprehensible event, I decided to put up something in a lighter vein.

So I bring you the courgette.

You may be thinking, the what? Which is pretty much what I was thinking when L asked me if I knew what a courgette was. Some context: we are both tired, it is getting late, so we decide to read in bed. I hear her laughing. Then she asks me the question.

I thought you were reading something about food, I say. She is. I think it is somehow British so I ask her if it by those two women, the ones who go around on motorcycle. It is not, she says. Now I am a little disappointed. I think the motorcycle chicks might say something about food that I will think is interesting. The title of her book has something to do with nutmeg in the kitchen. She tells me she thinks courgette must be some kind of vegetable. Perhaps a variety of squash.

Now, she should have known asking me about courgette was going to get her nowhere. I frequently fail to identify the food she puts on the side of my plate. I have been known to tentatively poke unidentified vegetable matter with my fork and say “now I’m not complaining honey, but what is this?”

I come from the cooking school where if I put it in the oven and get it warm, I have cooked. I cook mostly frozen things. I believe if you have enough of them on your plate, tater tots are a meal.

So, by a combination of default and a desire for balanced nutrition, L is the cook in our house. For all I know, she is at this moment scheming to feed me courgette.

I am not defenseless against this weird food onslaught, though. Now that I am up and about and online, I can Google this weird food. I can research reasons why eating it isn’t a good idea. Possibly even dangerous — you can find anything on the internet, after all.

Well, well. Turns out that courgette is nothing more than the french word for zucchini. No wonder my sweetie didn’t know what it was. What kind of self-respecting Italian cook would call a zucchini anything but zucchini?

And yes, I do eat zucchini. Unless anything strange has been done to it.