tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81936634926415311372011-09-21T14:30:03.947-07:00Eatup is the evolving story of how we foster our friendships, family ties and traditions through food. I invite all of you to share stories about -- and pictures of -- your own food traditions: Sunday brunch and dinner parties; Passover seders and Christmas dinners; monthly get-togethers with old friends, etc.davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.comBlogger151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-70355794446322333332009-12-15T15:36:00.000-08:002010-01-19T16:24:29.596-08:00

The ancient Romans possessed a singular genius for culinary hedonism most alarmingly illustrated by their famous (though apparently apocryphal) vomitoriums. One must shudder at the image the word almost necessarily conjures: fat pasty men with bulging stomachs just barely covered by food-stained togas; gluttonous, oversexed, reeking of perfume and puking together in a room full of vomit. Yet

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-66290497868837772802009-12-08T14:47:00.000-08:002010-01-19T16:25:14.980-08:00

It's been two weeks since Thanksgiving now, and after many scrubbings, the kitchen still smells faintly of lard, the cabinets are now permanently splattered bright red with chile and the refrigerator is still brimming with the products of our long labor. Even after many dinners of homemade sopes and tacos and burritos there are still pounds of masa, pulled pork and jarred red chile in the ice

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-79016871517425060292009-11-22T14:41:00.000-08:002010-01-19T16:25:55.667-08:00

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-52516554840301262322009-11-12T18:39:00.000-08:002009-11-13T00:07:54.986-08:00

Last Sunday, I took an improbable leap and landed in a gorgeous adobe house in the desert outside Santa Fe, New Mexico. The cramped Brooklyn apartment I leased out for two months is thousands of miles away and all I can focus on now is my monster of a new kitchen: the turquoise-tiled island, the dishwasher!!! and a powerful gas range.My first day at seven thousand feet above sea level I was

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-58708293231818451142009-06-22T15:34:00.000-07:002009-08-14T01:31:48.455-07:00

Across the country this Father's Day, families are drinking beer, playing football and grilling burgers, wings, and kebabs. And every year in Warwick, my family has our grandfather's smoked turkey.We pass the long drive to his house with smoked bird on the mind. To begin with, why smoked turkey for Father's Day?More importantly, why hasn't anyone seen him make it – not in some twenty-odd years?

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-57251150066792424752009-05-25T10:50:00.000-07:002009-06-08T13:33:55.031-07:00

Memorial Day finds us seated on flimsy folding chairs at a cemented backyard barbecue in Queens County, Long Island – two Jews, fifteen Mexicans, a Bolivian and a Puerto Rican – and though you might say I'm a bad citizen – I'm hard pressed to tell you what it is exactly that we're meant to remember on this mysteriously most memorable of days – I'm giving some serious thought to the concept of "

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-47496767283898071882009-05-20T21:16:00.000-07:002009-06-08T10:50:35.686-07:00

The trucks have arrived with their greasy, quivering spiral mounds of sweet and spicy Italian sausage. They're on every street corner, those huge white behemoths of schlock on wheels, filling the air with the sickly sweet aroma of burnt vidalias and charred sausage.Where else am I but New York, the cultural capital that can't seem to offer up a single decent street fair? Go figure – the world's

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-37963259889556218222009-05-20T13:37:00.000-07:002010-01-19T16:35:42.688-08:00

Rain rain, go away. In New York, apparently, April showers bring May...showers, although the East Coast, which suddenly has a monsoon season, has finally given way to kinder weather (pray for it!).Yes, ladies and gents, excepting that one brief hot spell last month, picnic season is finally here for good in the NYC, so break out those blankets, baskets, that suntan lotion...and a few discreetly

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-82618289292068681332009-05-11T11:51:00.000-07:002010-01-19T16:33:43.725-08:00

Though my parents will never admit to this, they had big plans in mind when they named me after a chef. "That's right," they said, "He'll be our live-in cook, and it won't cost us a dime!"And so it goes: I grew up in the kitchen, my life dictated by the rhythms of breakfast, lunch and dinner. I learned the intricacies of holiday meal planning while my friends were learning to count:

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-72846510925490542452009-04-28T12:19:00.000-07:002010-01-19T16:31:06.595-08:00

It’s still April, the trees may be greening, but already, it's feeling like summer, so I’m wondering if taking my shirt off – let’s admit it, I’m a hairy guy – is really a viable option. I'm really schvitzing here. Gotta buy some gold necklaces to nestle in the chest hair first, I guess.It’s Sunday, of course, and this week we’re picnicking at Flushing Meadows Park with the family: Sara, Jose,

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-11280268780016750322009-04-21T13:44:00.001-07:002010-01-19T16:28:55.346-08:00

When Moses said let my people go, Britain was a muddy hole in the ground. When the Emperor Hadrian built his famous wall across England, it was still just a rainy, muddy hole. And as the world’s greatest religious and political dynasties rose and fell, still, Britain was an unspeakably muddy, backwards kind of place. Let’s leave it at this: the Maya were conducting brain surgery as the Scots

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-81466636392918925672009-04-21T12:42:00.000-07:002010-01-19T16:27:39.632-08:00

Talk about tradition. This is the three thousandth year we celebrate Passover, give or take a few centuries. In New York, at least, the blatant, violent anti-semitism my grandparents faced is a thing of the past, so after a couple millennia, we can finally just sit down, relax, eat, drink, and be merry.Everyone loves a good matzoh ball, but as far as I'm concerned, they are the thing, not

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-87613270080196711082009-04-16T14:29:00.000-07:002010-01-19T16:26:59.808-08:00

Sunday, T minus nothing. I’ve been waiting for this day for weeks, and here we finally are: White Trash Day.We're in Queens at my sister’s apartment. The day is young, today's feast is on the coffee table in front of us, and we're all buried under blankets on the couch. I’ve got the stuff of legend in my hands – a Kool-Aid pickle – and comfortably sandwiched between Jose and Yaz, I size up my

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-38880689300249601372009-04-16T14:09:00.000-07:002010-01-19T16:23:39.407-08:00

The first day of spring, all we had was cold, cold, cold. Nevertheless, I was determined to usher in the new season with lemon, ginger, parsley, mint, cilantro, and garlic. Down with braises, stews, and casseroles! Down with meat and potatoes and winter vegetables!Saturday night, the kitchen was strewn with fresh herbs redolent of the warming earth and lengthening days.As Saturday verged on

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8193663492641531137.post-26521119258373885472009-04-16T14:02:00.000-07:002009-04-16T14:29:04.150-07:00

Everybody eats. That’s a given, and most people love their food. But when it comes to the four of us – that’s me, my sister Sara, her fiancé, Jose, and Yasmine, that love verges on the crazy. And when I say crazy, I mean borderline obsession.For us, food isn’t just what keeps us alive. It’s not just about pleasure. The food we cook for each other ties us together as a spoken and unspoken form

davidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06974531083863060582noreply@blogger.com0