Some posts need no words, only beauty and the inspired imagination to conjure spring…
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April 2020
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April
2020
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April
2020
22
April
2020
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April
2020
Always Be My Boston
Boston, 1996.
It is my favorite time of the day to be in the bedroom.
Mid-to-late afternoon, as the sun begins its long descent.
It is late spring, and there hasn’t been any significant heat to make this bedroom bay-window difficult. In another month summer will have arrived, and it will be decidedly less fun to stay here in the afternoon sun. For now, it is the perfect place to be.
I sit in a silly Pier One papasan, back when they used to sell me merchandise, and idly flip through the pages of a book. Over the previous winter, I’d gotten into the habit of reading in the bedroom after a work shift when I found myself lost for something to do. It eased the nights of solitude, and while solitude proved bothersome a few short months before, now it was something I almost embraced. I was learning to be ok on my own. Better than ok, I was verging on happiness.
WE WERE AS ONE BABE
FOR A MOMENT IN TIME
AND IT SEEMED EVERLASTING
THAT YOU WOULD ALWAYS BE MINE
NOW YOU WANNA BE FREE
SO I’M LETTING YOU FLY
‘CAUSE I KNOW IN MY HEART BABE
OUR LOVE WILL NEVER DIE, NO
It was basically my first summer alone in Boston. I’d usually have headed back to my parents’ home to take advantage of the central air conditioning and refreshing pool. For most of this summer I’d stay in Boston. I spent the days working at Structure, which was almost a full-time gig, given that they scheduled me for 35 hours a week. I could pretty much choose my shifts though, and it was a social outlet which was good since I didn’t yet have many friends in Boston – certainly not in the summer when most of my friends went home. Not quite 21 years old, I still didn’t go out much, and that was fine. It forced me to make the most of nightly solitude in other ways.
Mariah Carey was continuing her mid-90’s domination of the pop scene, and back when MTV was still playing videos her sweet ode to innocent love was playing all the time. Its summer camp lake scene was something I didn’t recognize from my own youth, but romance was something equally unrecognizable for me. The idea of it held much appeal and allure, but the reality proved elusive, probably because my idea of it was far from reality. Still, it was nice to fantasize about a gentleman with whom I might share a spring or summer, or at the very least a shower.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME?
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
When my work-day was done, I’d find my way back to the condo and station myself in the bedroom window, reading and pausing for a brief siesta before getting running gear and stepping into the dinner-time air. Neighbors sat on their front steps eating off their summer plates and clinking glasses of wine. I’d wave and rush by in a jog. It felt good to be outside. The long winter of commuting to Brandeis still felt chilly in my memory. It was nice just to be free from that, and to pass the flowering trees and their perfume. Everyone was outside, it seemed. And they were all going to dinner or socializing, while I rushed by, ever on the outskirts, ever hurrying away from such interactions.
[It feels far away, not only because it was almost a quarter of a century ago, but because in just a few short weeks I’ve already grown dangerously accustomed to being without human contact. The notion of pausing and speaking with people I know, just on the street, feels suddenly, and yet forever, foreign.]
I AIN’T GONNA CRY NO
AND I WON’T BEG YOU TO STAY
IF YOU’RE DETERMINED TO LEAVE BOY
I WILL NOT STAND IN YOUR WAY
BUT INEVITABLY
YOU’LL BE BACK AGAIN
‘CAUSE YOU KNOW IN YOUR HEART BABE
OUR LOVE WILL NEVER END, NO
As much as I shy away from people, part of me seeks them out. I cross Columbus and head to Tremont, where all the restaurants and cafes are. The South End is just beginning to turn into an unaffordable place, but it’s not quite there yet. Vestiges of the large gay population remain, centered around Geoffrey’s and Francesca’s, but I keep myself on the outskirts, literally running past the people even as I crave to be near them.
If part of me wanted to meet someone special, I didn’t think the whole running thing through. How exactly did I intend to meet anyone while jogging? If someone gave me the once-over, did I really expect to stop in my sweaty state and strike up a conversation, out of breath and flustered? No, I didn’t think it through, but that made no difference. The point is the run. It occupies my time and keeps me in shape.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
I run up and down Tremont, passing the places where the people gather, peeking in on their evening expositions, watching their laughter and the way they bring food and cocktails to their lips. As fast as I rushed by, I could still see. The sun slowly goes down and still the light remains. Sweat runs down my face and it is time to head back. There was nothing special waiting for me at the condo, but there is just so far one guy can run in an evening.
Back in the bedroom, there is no longer the direct sunlight of afternoon streaming in. It’s a little sadder, though I’m not sad. On the television, Mariah is back on, singing this happy song, as I step into the shower. Dousing myself in the Dewberry line from the Body Shop, I make an unintentional memory. There is nothing special happening in my life, I’m simply existing – working and running and reading and sleeping and eating bagels from Finagle. I’d dated men and women by that point, I had my moments of not being alone. This was something different: I had to know that I’d be ok on my own if I needed to be. I fell asleep with a book on my chest, the bathroom light still annoyingly bright.
I KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE BACK BOY
WHEN YOUR DAYS AND YOUR NIGHTS GET A LITTLE BIT COLDER
I KNOW THAT YOU’LL BE RIGHT BACK BABY
OH BABY BELIEVE ME IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME, TIME…
In the morning the light from outside is back, pouring in the front windows of the condo now. There is orange juice in the fridge, and a brown paper bag of bagels on the counter. If I’m feeling especially decadent, and planned ahead, I would indulge in a container of cream cheese. On the fanciest days I will go so far as to toast the bagel. For the most part, I eat them plain, tearing their doughy forms into bite size pieces and popping them into my mouth as I stand near the windows looking out onto Braddock Park. I am a typical single guy in Boston, just more accustomed and comfortable in being on my own. I’m also only twenty years old. The friends I make at work can go out to bars, which limits my participation. Secretly, I thrill at being off the hook for attending those gatherings just because of my young age. And so I run.
YOU’LL ALWAYS BE A PART OF ME
I’M PART OF YOU INDEFINITELY
BOY DON’T YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
AND WE’LL LINGER ON
TIME CAN’T ERASE A FEELING THIS STRONG
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
OOH DARLING ‘CAUSE YOU’LL ALWAYS BE MY BABY
Looking back, I recognize in my actions a number of the things I’ve been practicing lately, specifically within the realm of being more mindful and present. I couldn’t realize it then, because it often felt like I was always way too much in my head, but in retrospect I was also remarkably in the moment. I worried for my future, but not to an extent that it stalled or crippled me. I remember being in that moment, inhabiting that specific time, those particular spring days that bled into summer. And some part of me knew that was important, because I still remember it, and the Dewberry fragrance brings it all back, as does this song.
The world has changed quite a bit since then. Boston has changed quite a bit. I’ve changed quite a bit. But that part of me that could simply enjoy an almost-summer night, running and chasing the sun down, still exists – time really can’t erase a feeling this strong – and the promise of Boston holds a place in my heart – in the past, and in the future.
YOU AND I WILL ALWAYS BE
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
NO WAY YOU’RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME
YOU AND I WILL ALWAYS BE…
21
April
2020
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April
2020
Spring Blossom by the Beekman Boys
Arriving in the midst of one of the dreariest days we’ve had in a while, the beautiful spring bounty box from the Beekman Boys was like a breath of fresh air for my house-bound self. The timing couldn’t have been better. The day was weighted with a heavy blanket of clouds, and a steady rain had been falling since I got up. The winds were just about to arrive, adding to the horrid mess, and all I really wanted to do was go back to sleep. Working from home doesn’t allow such extravagances, at least I don’t allow such extravagance when I’m working from home. And all those unanswered emails wouldn’t do my probationary period any favors either.
I did allow myself a quick peek at the box and the new Spring Blossom fragrance, and immediately the mood lifted. A little bit of light crept into the room, with the sumptuous packaging and soft pink wrapping. Spring Blossom brought scenes of flowering trees to mind, and those evenings when the fragrance carried on a breeze, signaling the coming of summer, the return of the sun, the promise of ease.
It was exquisitely perfumed – and reminded me instantly of a gorgeous Hermes fragrance from their Jardin series – ‘Le Jardin de Monsieur Li’ – one of my favorites in their Jardin series. The pairing will make for an absolutely divine spring power punch, even if Andy is the only one who will be able to smell it.
21
April
2020
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April
2020
Fuck Pancakes
Forget about ‘fetch’ – the only thing not ever going to happen is me making pancakes from scratch that aren’t disasters. I’m not going to pretend false humility or modesty at this moment: I’m pretty fucking awesome at a pretty extensive number of things. The one thing I remain unable to consistently accomplish is making a simple fucking pancake. (I have come close in the past, but just this once.)
Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the ingredients, maybe it’s the pan, maybe it’s just my fucking ineptitude to operate when a runny batter rears its wet head – whatever the case, I can’t do it. And it’s not just the first pancake either, though I appreciate the condolences. That’s ok. I mean, I’m ok with it now. And I’m sure I could work and work and practice and perfect – but I’d rather accept this defeat, especially as it means someone else will have the opportunity to make them.
Now, if you want your pancake burnt on the outside and raw in the middle – not such an easy thing to do, by the way – you’ve come to the right guy. I’ll give you that charred-semi-semolina magic anytime. If you want it profanity-free, that’s gonna cost you fucking extra.
FYI – I’m completely aware that the protective seal from the fancy-ass syrup bottle is on the plate. It fell there when I was trying to be fucking fancy and it just felt right to leave it there.
20
April
2020
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April
2020
A Rather Rumpled Recap
These are truly the end times.
And if we’re all gonna bow out soon, I’ll be damned if I do it before showing the world my authentic, genuine, rumpled-in-the-morning self.
Also, if it turns out we make it through these weeks somehow unscathed, this will go a great way toward helping me get over my perfectionism. My head knows there is no such thing as perfection, but the heart wants what it wants.
So here, on a Monday morning in which I woke up late (well, later than I’d like) and realized I didn’t even program a proper recap post (my posts are typically written and programmed three or four days in advance) I decided to give you a peek at what I look like first thing in the morning, before taking a shower or fixing my hair or brushing my teeth. I think I took these even before I peed. As Kelly LeBrock once remarked, “This is my hair in the morning.” Unfiltered. Imperfect. Non-‘Portrait: Studio Lighting’-style. On with the recap…
The week began post-Easter with some salacious baskets on some nearly-naked male celebrities.
This recipe is for the best banana bread I’ve had in eons.
Comfort food: mung beans.
A spring-like shrimp & bulgur salad.
Chris and Scott Evans: brotherly love.
When six is just right, but feels like too much.
This is not the gayest photo of me, but it’s pretty damn close.
An almost-forgotten Boston friend.
More awakening, more awareness.
Hunks of the Day included Scott Evans, Lance Gross, Ethan Slater, Kevin Bruce, and Trevor Noah.
19
April
2020
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April
2020
Awakening to Awareness ~ Part Three
“There is yet another illusion, that it is important to be respectable, to be loved and appreciated, to be important. Many say we have a natural urge to be loved and appreciated, to belong. That’s false. Drop this illusion and you will find happiness. We have a natural urge to be free, a natural urge to love, but not to be loved…” ~ Anthony de Mello
May our recent Sunday afternoon/evening moment of calm and tranquility find furtherance in this post. Here are more words from Anthony de Mello and his book/talk on awareness, and these are pretty important ones. They shift a fundamental dynamic that has driven the way I viewed and interacted with the world, and especially with the people around me. Had I realized and understood this a bit better when I was younger, many years of heartbreak, heartache, and general heart wariness could have been avoided. Luckily, it’s never too late to learn, and it’s never to late to find freedom. Sometimes, finding it at this late stage of the game is even sweeter. There is an extra aspect of joy in unexpected delight.
When I think back to previous relationships I’ve had – not only romantic ones but friendships and family connections as well, not to mention long-ago iterations of marriage too – I marvel at how so much of what felt or seemed wrong was in my own perception of various situations. We want to attribute our own failings and strengths to those around us, perpetuating a cycle of reflection and warped refraction that doesn’t truly aid in connecting to anyone. And it certainly never helped to find and discover an un-obscured view of oneself. But that was then. I did the best I could do. Embracing illusions and delusions, I didn’t set out to hurt anyone, though the weirdly indulgent masochistic part of me may have welcomed some degree of hurt to myself. I thought suffering in some way made people better. Stronger. More vulnerable and therefore more appealing. I lived inside my head to kill it dead.
These days I can look at that mindset and its subsequent behavior with a bit of a chuckle. It’s best to laugh at one’s mistakes, after you have learned from them. It’s another part in breaking down a perfectionist’s need to be perfect. A laugh or a chuckle doesn’t always indicate judgment or derision – in fact, I can genuinely report that my laughter is usually not derisive, even though everyone gleans it as such. I laugh for joy – the enjoyment of all our imperfections, the enjoyment of the ridiculousness that I might not like your outfit or hair, the enjoyment of the insanity and inanity of me thinking I have any right to impress my taste on anyone else – I was, I am, and I shall remain an ass for my time on this earth! (And really, when are you going to do something about that hideous blouse?)
“When you finally awake, you don’t try to make good things happen; they just happen. You understand suddenly that everything that happens to you is good. Think of some people you’re living with whom you want to change. You find them moody, inconsiderate, unreliable, treacherous, or whatever. But when you are different, they’ll be different. That’s an infallible and miraculous cure. The day you are different, they will become different. And you will see them differently, too. Someone who seemed terrifying will now seem frightened. Someone who seemed rude will seem frightened. All of a sudden, no one has the power to hurt you anymore.” ~ Anthony de Mello
{See also Awakening to Awareness: Part One and Part Two.}
19
April
2020
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April
2020
Every Day is Like Sunday
Sundays are usually melancholy days. We spend our lives making them such – from school dread to work dread to church dread – and even if Sundays are better than Mondays, the impending end of the weekend has always imbued them with a sadness I’ve never quite been able to shake. In switching trains of thought recently, I’ve come to see things differently, and have worked to embrace Sunday as much as Saturday. In essence, they are the same – if anything, Sunday comes with added options for rest, as most places have reduced hours on that day. Well, when they’re operating in usual fashion. That’s no longer the case. And so we have this timely song.
TRUDGING SLOWLY OVER WET SAND
BACK TO THE BENCH WHERE YOUR CLOTHES WERE STOLEN
THIS IS A COASTAL TOWN
THAT THEY FORGOT TO CLOSE DOWN
ARMAGEDDON – COME ARMAGEDDON COME ARMAGEDDON COME
EVERY DAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
EVERY DAY IS SILENT AND GREY
We had snow just a few days ago, meaning that while it’s technically spring, it’s not necessarily in the air yet. While spreading mulch, however, I did catch a bit of magnolia on the chilly wind, a hint of perfume that may last a little longer in the cooler temperatures. The one saving grace of the weather is that flowers hang around as if they were being coddled in the florist’s fridge. These simple thoughts float across the mind as I contemplate a Sunday.
HIDE ON A PROMENADE
ETCH ON A POST CARD:
HOW I DEARLY WISH I WAS NOT HERE
IN THE SEASIDE TOWN
THAT THEY FORGOT TO BOMB
COME, COME NUCLEAR BOMB!
EVERY DAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
EVERY DAY IS SILENT AND GREY
Sundays carry a certain inherent sorrow too, something that has imbued all our lives in the last few years. I’ve discovered that it’s vital to acknowledge and occasionally embrace that sorrow, because it won’t go away or subside if you simply ignore it. The world is troubled. I feel it more on Sundays.
TRUDGING BACK OVER PEBBLES AND SAND
AND A STRANGE DUST LANDS ON YOUR HANDS
(AND ON YOUR FACE)
EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY
“WIN YOURSELF A CHEAP TRAY”
SHARE SOME GREASED TEA WITH ME
EVERYDAY IS SILENT AND GREY
19
April
2020
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April
2020
Left to Fend for Itself in Boston
How long can a ZZ plant truly survive without water? We are about to find out, as I haven’t been in Boston for over a month and it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to water the ZZ plant I have there anytime soon. I thought of it for the first time a couple of days ago. Up until that point, I hadn’t missed it. I mean, I hadn’t missed Boston. I missed Kira, and I missed the escape it provided, but I didn’t really miss being there until recently, and that’s when I thought of the little ZZ plant in the bedroom window.
That particular window has seen a few plants over the years. It started with a ficus tree. I’d always wanted one, but never had enough light for one while at college. In the bedroom, light poured in for the entire afternoon. It did relatively well, but eventually succumbed to mealybugs and too many vacations.
Following that, a more amenable and less temperamental umbrella plant took its place, rising to half my height with its beautifully variegated foliage. It was doing quite well, basking in its sunny window, when I moved to Chicago. By the time I returned, it had wilted and almost expired, much like my heart. It made a bit of a comeback but gave up entirely a few weeks after I was back (to be completely honest, I may have given up on it too). It was better that way, as I was spending more time in Albany than in Boston, and soon enough Boston became my second home, visited once a month – sometimes less.
I didn’t think that schedule would support a plant (I didn’t want to go the cactus or succulent route) but when I discovered the ZZ plant and its water-holding rhizomes, along with tales of its indestructibility, I thought I’d give it a whirl. At Niche, I found a lovely specimen, which did so well the first few months, it soon needed a new pot. I brought some potting soil from Albany (so much easier than lugging a fresh bag on the subway) and found a pretty pot at Crate & Barrel, and it settled in happily. A monthly watering schedule actually worked much better for this kind of plant, and since then it’s provided a lovely bit of greenery, particularly in the winter months.
Now, I’m praying for its well-being in these crazy and dark times.
{Stay tuned for a more uplifting Boston post soon, even if it’s a fantasy piece.}
18
April
2020
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April
2020
This Is Not the Gayest Photo of Me, But It’s Pretty Damn Close
There are some photos that demand too many captions all at once.
I think this is one of those photos.
A few ruminations…
Nobody thought to tell me I was gay?
Serving attitude since circa 1986.
The sass is strong with this one.
All Adidas, all the way.
Striped tube socks served without irony.
How to sissy that stance.
Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.
Even the brochures I’m holding are gay in this.
{Some “friends” have wondered how I didn’t break my hip or back in this pose, and all I can say is that I was much more flexible and fabulous in my youth. Step & repeat.}
18
April
2020
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April
2020
When Six Is Just Right, But Feels Like Too Much
The first time I ever ordered bulk mulch delivered to our home was a number of years ago. After speaking with the person in charge of the delivery, we decided that two cubic yards would more than suffice. We don’t have a huge yard, but much of it is landscaped with gardens and various patches of shrubs and trees. That first year, when the truck arrived and dumped it in our driveway, I was happy to think of all the trips to Lowes I’d otherwise have had to make, bringing four or five bags of mulch home at a time, sometimes having to make a few trips in a single day. As glad as that made me, I was also somewhat daunted by the enormity of two cubic yards of mulch. I was also surprised by how quickly it went, and how much more I actually needed.
A number of years passed since that happened. I’ve been amending the gardens gradually since then, buying a bag or two here and there as necessary, but this year the ground was bare enough to merit another delivery. Unfortunately, the memory is fallible, especially mine of late, and the one thing that I recalled more than anything else was not the enormous amount that two cubic yards was, but rather how we didn’t have nearly enough. So I ordered six this time.
If you’ve ever ordered mulch or know how much that is, you are probably laughing at me right now. I would be too. It’s absolutely laughable, as was my horrified look as the truck dumped out an amount of mulch that would fill the entire inside of our house about three times over. Now, I rarely get overwhelmed. Even when I should be, I usually don’t feel it. But as I walked outside and was greeted with a wall of mulch that went up to my head, I felt it. Overwhelmed.
The first thing I did was to consult the weather calendar, because if it was going to rain anytime in the near future, I’d be screwed, and I needed to know if I was going to have to find some make-do tarp to cover it from water. Luckily, the skies showed clear for at least three days. I could do it in three days, I thought. Turned out I could do it in two afternoons, but I’m paying a bit of a price.
My hands are worn.
And I haven’t felt this good in forever.
Bonus: I got it all down before the snow fell again.
17
April
2020
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April
2020
Friday Night Blues
Or more accurately, ‘Almost Blue’ and some melancholy jazz featuring Chet Baker and his trumpet. Any Friday night plans? Me neither. Except perhaps some light reading and more of Mr. Baker and his evocative music. For some of us, music is helping us get through this isolation phase. I’ve been delving into Dua Lipa for daytime inspiration, and ‘The Malady of Elegance’ for sleep. Chet Baker falls somewhere in-between the two, because music can be many things depending on time and mood. Sadly, Baker didn’t have the happiest life, but his talent and his music brought happiness to others. Someone once remarked that he was “an American dream being dragged through the mud,†and hearing that rips a little hole in my heart. There are also reports he wasn’t the greatest partner, proving that heartache and hurt often leads to more heartache and hurt.
Once in a while, Friday night is a quiet night.
We’re likely to have more nights like this in the near future. Meet you back here next week.
“Having to live up to the fantasies of others is a big drag.†– Chet Baker
17
April
2020
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April
2020
Madonna: Her Virgin Fragrance, Rediscovered
‘Truth or Dare’ will always be the Madonna movie that turned me into a super-fan, but it was also the name Madonna chose for her first fragrance. While its heavy floral bouquet of tuberose and gardenia was way too much for me the first time I smelled it, I find it’s lovely for wearing around the house every once in a while. Like on a rainy spring day when you are still in isolation for safety, and the weather is not cooperating. With some neroli and jasmine, it is very much a deep floral, which I can only take in small doses. It almost veers into old lady territory (and that’s not an insult in my world), but there’s a youthful spirit to it that befits the agelessness of Madonna.
She conjured the fragrance in memory of her mother’s own perfume, and several connoisseurs have indicated it’s also quite similar to Fracas, an expensive classic also top-heavy with tuberose. The best perfumes are those that combine memories with decadence, beauty with history, and for Madonna, ‘Truth or Dare’ seems to contain all of the aforementioned. For me, it’s a scent of spring, to be worn only on special nights when you find yourself wanting to indulge, and not needing anything other than the skin you’re in. (Hello, ‘Naked.’)
A single spray of a gorgeous scent as one heads to bed for a few moments of reading is one of life’s more unheralded pleasures.
16
April
2020
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April
2020
The Brothers Evans
Continuing the love affair that began with the recent Hunk of the Day crowning of Scott Evans, here’s a lighthearted video of the Brothers Evans for your evening enjoyment. See more of Chris Evans here, and much more here. Also check out Scott’s recent HOD honor here.
16
April
2020
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April
2020
Getting High Off More One-Pot Stops
Like many others, I’ve been on a cooking kick of late given that there’s not much else we can do while waiting for the weather to warm up a bit and work in the yard. Be that as it may, I’m not averse to simplifying things in the kitchen as much as possible, so a recent New York Times supplement that included ’24 Brilliant Recipes for Everyone Who Hates Doing the Dishes’ has been a godsend. Thus far I’ve made my way through six of them – the latest being this Dijon and Cognac Beef Stew, which was as scrumptious as it was simple. [To date this pork chop endeavor has been my favorite.]
The cognac beef stew seen here is basically just some stew beef, seasoned and coated in a dusting of flour before being nicely browned in the rendered wonder of some salt pork, then some onion and shallots and carrots and mushrooms, and finally some cognac, beef stock, Dijon mustard, Pommery mustard and red wine. (Confession: I omitted the Pommery mustard and just used a bit more of the Dijon we had because ours seemed to have enough whole-grains in it, and I don’t really know what Pommery mustard is. I feel more badly about the sinful omission of the red wine because we didn’t have an open bottle, but I would definitely add it if you have some on hand.)
This recipe could also be done in a slow-cooker, which is the way I did it, because if you can do it in a slow cooker, just do it in a slow cooker! Technically, our slow cooker will saute too, but I used one pan for browning the meat and cooking the veggies and it worked out with minimal clean-up.
I’ve got my eye on a Shrimp Scampi with Orzo next…
15
April
2020
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April
2020
Taking the Bore Out of Bulgur
There’s nothing very exciting about bulgur on its own. Whole wheat grain that doesn’t require much cooking to prepare is about as thrilling as it sounds. Before you go to sleep, however, give it a whirl with some eye-opening additions, such as preserved lemon, garlic shrimp and a big handful of fresh cilantro, and you’ve got a suddenly exciting dish that is ample enough to stand on its own as an entree.
This is basically just some bulgur soaked in boiling water and left alone for half an hour or so, then mixed with some shrimp saut̩ed in garlic and butter, a healthy pour of olive oil, a small preserved lemon finely chopped (or half of a large one), and some chopped avocado. A good handful of freshly-chopped cilantro is the final touch for this bright meal Рperfect for spring and summer because of its minimal cooking time. Be generous with the salt and pepper too Рthe bulgur wants it.
