a(n anti-) celebration

Once there was a time. And I posted this. I had made the decision to become a baker. And I took it very seriously, reading Calvel, Hamelman, Kaplan; I made more bread at home, I came to have intuitive understanding of bread.

And then, this winter, I've had more respiratory illnesses and flus than I can remember in a winter. Allergies? But I can eat wheat. Allergy to yeast? Then I'd never be able to eat anything fermented. Yesterday I was preliminary diagnosed with "Baker's Asthma," wherein I have asthma somehow triggered by all the fine particulate that I inahale on a daily basis (even with a mask for the last few months). And all that comes with an inhaler that "may increase the risk of asthma-related death."

Whoa.

So I needed something (and have been craving red meat, maybe I don't eat enough kale?), and I needed to recognize the comfort of knowing — after months — what is wrong, and I need comfort in knowing that I need a major change in my life.

And there she is — Julia Child — waiting to comfort me.

Biftek sauté au beurre — Pommes Anna — Champignons sauté à la Bordelaise — Chou frisé à la vapeur

First, these beech mushrooms need to be noted. Them come white, as picture, or this beautiful mottled brown. And are just wonderful.

So, pan-broiled steak : a sirloin seared in butter (with some of the rendered fat I cut off), mushrooms sautéed and tossed with scallions, garlic, breadcrumbs and wine (so 1960, but really f—ing good), Pommes Anna, and kale, steamed and tossed with some raw red wine vinegar. Even better, I had everything except the steak (a mere 8oz) and wine (a great Syrah-Grenache for seven bucks).


And next? (anyone want to foot the capital for pickle bar?)