use real butter

Recipe: guacamole

Christine had commented on the avocado mound that was sidling up next to the stacked enchiladas from a few days ago. Funny that, since I was planning to blog it! She’s an observant one.

My first true exposure to the beauty of avocados was the first time I lived in California. My pal, Melinda, had two giant avocado trees in her backyard and she always asked me to make the guacamole whenever they hosted parties for the club volleyball team. Then before we’d head home for the evening, she would grab me by the arm and foist a grocery bag full of avocados on me. “Take these!” she would insist. Gladly, Mel.

Recipe: stacked enchiladas

looking from the other side
I lived in Southern California for a total of ten years. My friends in States With Real Winter used to send me hate email in January for posting pictures on my blog of things like barbecue parties on our patio with fat, juicy oranges dangling off of the verdant trees in the background. I love California winter. Winter in California is what I think summer should be. Of course, the moment March rolled around I wilted until November. But now I live where I get many good months of winter and the summers are tolerable (it can still get hot at 8500 feet). We mountain folk are smug little bastards. When I talk to Boulderites I refer to their town as “the flats” and I like to remind them that they don’t even know cold, snow, and especially wind. When I regard them from my home, I literally look down at them. Okay, but where the hell is this going?

Cindy posted about some beautiful baking she did this weekend, and it is indeed beautiful. Then I notice these flowers that adorn the cake and cupcakes and I’m thinking those are awfully pretty – I wonder where she got… And she writes that she traipsed outside to her yard and plucked these flowers and I’m imagining Bambi and friends gathered about and waving hi and little bluebirds singing while they do her hair. WTF? People think I’m joking when I say our growing season is on the order of a few weeks. California has two lettuce seasons. TWO. Let’s see here, if I go outside in my yard I find these:

Typically, fast food is shunned in our household. Typically. Unless we are driving down I-70 after a big day of free-heeling pow (translates into: telemarking deep, fluffy snow) and are desperate to stoke up on grease, sodium, sugar, and more grease. When it comes to fast food, my personal favorite is the Chick-fil-A sandwich – a chicken sandwich I grew up eating in southern Virginia. It lived in every mall in the South.

Last year, I toured Sydney for four days while Jeremy dorked out with an international team of astronomers – a group that makes even geologists look fashionable – in Alice Springs. I can’t say I have ever experienced a more incredible eating tour of any city, thanks to my dear Kell. We ate some seriously fancy shmancy food. I also had my token spud meatpie at Harry’s Cafe de Wheels in Woolloomooloo. I love saying Woolloomooloo as much as I love typing it. Woolloomooloo, Woolloomooloo, Woolloomooloo. As part of my inaugural effort to eat all of Sydney, Kell and Jerad took me to Oporto to experience what they claim is Australia’s best fast food sandwich: a chicken filet sandwich with a chili ginger sauce (piri piri). Instant love, I tell you.

Imagine my surprise and elation when a package arrived for me a few weeks ago postmarked from Australia. I love my Kell, because she randomly purchases everyday delights from her lovely (and hot – did I tell you how bloody hot it is in Oz?) island continent nation, pops them into a bubble-padded envelope, and ships them to my post office box in the hills. That and she has a wicked hilarious sense of humor. Anyway, this package contained the precious of precious sauces: