Alicia Kennedy, Food & Drink Writer

old blog

wknd 10/25–10/26: ...and we're back

When the wall-mounted table in the kitchen of the house where I currently live collapsed, this blog went with it. No one drilled it back into the wall, and there's no counter space otherwise. There were some times when I rolled out shortbread dough on a cleared-off portion of my desk, or frosted cupcakes while elbowing the microwave, but for the most part, I could get nothing good done. I certainly couldn't spread out and test new recipes, and that's what I want to be doing.

Luckily! I'm moving this week into my boy Doug's apartment, where there is ample counter space and a beautiful refurbished kitchen. I can get back to work. I can get back to putting semi-complicated vegan baking recipes exclusively measured in grams out into the world, where surely every mom is using them to feed her children weekend treats. I can get back to God's goddam work, is what I'm saying.

And I'm ready for it. After closing La Pirata Kitchen just following its one-year anniversary, as it was growing and growing, which wasn't really what I wanted to do but seemed necessary because of life changes, I needed some space from thinking of myself as a baker. I took the space. I drank a lot, danced a lot, started a now-twice-monthly party and a daily blog to go with it, and was trying to ease myself back into the kitchen. I'm done easing. I want full-force shit.

Last week, I bought Brooks Headley's Fancy Desserts and have been making my way through it. It's a cookbook that even people who don't sit and read cookbooks would enjoy sitting and reading through. There are essays from Robert Sietsema and Sloane Crosley, an effusive-as-fuck foreword from Steve Albini, and lots of tales of the chef's humble rock drummer, vegetarian past. It's a fun one, and exactly what I need when I'm about to get back into my apron.

This weekend, which I guess I should talk about as the title notes, I didn't eat as well as I like to (and by "well" I mean "decadently and deliciously," not "healthfully"). Friday night at Cafe Ghia, I had a lovely pumpkin-cranberry soup that was not too heavy on either, which made the lackluster veggie burger that followed more of a disappointment. What can I expect from a veggie burger, though? I don't know. I'm trying them all to find out. They offered a vegan, gluten-free brownie for dessert that I could not pass up. It was like an undercooked Duncan Hines boxed-mix brownie. This is not a terrible thing. Saturday was most notable for Birdman, which I'd been dying to see and which totally lived up to all insane expectations.

Sunday, my mom and sister, Cameron, came to town and we went to Caracas Arepa Bar, because I knew they'd love it, because I love it. We shared fried sweet plantains and doused everything in that yellow sauce that's like a tangier sofrito. Eventually we ended up at Blue Bottle on a very stupidly long line for coffee, and Cam requested chocolate. I said, "I can do that," before I realized we were blocks from Mast Brothers, grabbed her by the shoulders, put my face up to hers, and said, "I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU TO THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY." I don't know why I'm allowed to roam free, but to the factory we did go. I've got some chocolate bark that I will surely gobble up during a moment of typo-induced stress (the image of my desk up there is what stress looks like). Cam said their chocolate-chip cookies taste like my chocolate-chip cookies. Just FYI.

At night, I had to drag myself from an all-too-brief reprieve of lying in bed streaming Parts Unknown to go do a VJ set. I made myself into rock-and-roll Alicia before switching out of the World's Gaudiest Jacket to drape myself in something that better covered the World's Plungiest Neckline. We played all hip-hop and it was enjoyable. I drank too many Modelos and then ate dumplings, alone, which is what I needed. It's what we all need sometimes.