Foodie MacFoodface

A spaghetti squash had been loitering on the kitchen counter for weeks, demanding attention. Thankfully, this particular fall phenomenon has a relatively long shelf-life and, as a consequence, I could eyeball it, and wait for optimal squash roasting conditions to avail themselves. With the moon in a waxing crescent, rain in the overnight forecast, and an oversupply of kale from my garden plot, the squash's fateful evening duly arrived. But, I also had a hankering for fish... and lemon vinaigrette. Following a quick scan of the interwebs for inspiration (beurre blanc, ahoy!), and having stowed the pesky squash in the oven to roast in my absence, I alighted to the supermarket to top up the required ingredient stash. An hour and a half later, there was quite a triumph to behold. The squash, praise be, had not been sacrificed in vain. Boom! Ingredients (serves two) 1x medium sized spaghetti squash (ours was donated from a friend's garden) 1x large handful of green...

The state where I want to be... 'Bucolic' fails to do it justice. It came to pass: The wife, knackered from interviewing Trumpists on Pennsylvania's coal-stained ramparts, insisted on evacuating the swamp for a vacation in Bernie's magical kingdom.  Vermont! , she said, Oh! Vermont... You'll see!  She had made all the arrangements. My job was to point the vehicle north, drive for nine hours, and make cooing noises on arrival. Vermont it would be. If we made haste we would arrive in time for Peak Fall Foliage. I'd heard only whispers about this northern hinterland: of deranged feral hippies churning cheese in the hills; of Jewish hobbits hurtling out of town halls waving their hands about and mumbling plans of praxis ; and of magnificently bearded, plaid-clad hipsters brewing sweet nectars for the gods.  AND IT WAS ALL TRUE. Jesus, Bernie and Joseph! Make no mistake, Vermont tastes good!  The Cheese Indeed. T...

Does dicing onion get you down?  Dice it like you own it. Dice like a boss. If the instruction "2 onions, diced" fills you with woe, let it be known that by the time you have finished reading this post, I will have changed your life, forever . Do you remember, way back in the mists of time, when someone took you aside and said "Your handshake is like a dead fish?" Hitherto, and probably unbeknownst to you, you had been skulking about proffering your limp wrist as a lame caricature of greeting. But no, our hero's life is about to change forever through the acquisition of a startling new skill; a technique passed down through the ages, making men. Henceforth, having "grow[n] a bit of backbone, boy", shoulders back and eyes psychotically locking into those of your interlocutor, you have seized prehensile limbs like a diminutive French President... And life has been glorious! I remember too, how onions would bounce around the cuttin...

Yes, dammit, yes! The wife had abandoned me for some far flung journalistic escapade. So, feeling sorry for myself, I retreated to Haikan clutching the London Review of Books to steady the mind, seeking ramen to fortify the constitution. I'm blessed to have Haikan, an outpost of the budding ramen empire spun off from Daikaya in Chinatown, DC, within stumbling distance of my couch. Fuck me, those fellas do know how to rummage through the ramen omnibus. I'm usually partial to Haikan's  spicy shoyu  (put an egg on it). It's a go-to-dish in times of existential need, and when the nip stalks the night. Warm and nourishing, the Japanese equivalent of your Jewish grandmother's chicken soup, spicy shoyu à la Haikan is quite splendid, indeed. But this particular evening itself was warm, inducing a conundrum. I've tried my better half's vegetarian ramen there before (clean, bright flavors, very scrumptious), but not wanting to miss an opportunity to E...

Aha! Welcome gastronauts. Foodie MacFoodface is sallying forth. Follow at https://www.facebook.com/FoodieMacFoodface/ ; @FMFface ; and https://www.instagram.com/fmfface/ . You can also email me tales of woe and flattery at the.mac@foodiemacfoodface.com "Who am I?", you may ask, and fairly so. Suffice it to say, I am a slightly portly man, hailing from the bottom-left corner of Africa, and now marooned in the cold wastelands of the north (Washington, D.C. to be precise). I have more than a passing acquaintance with the dark arts of cooking, and quite regularly find myself in the weeds rooting around with the quacks and quislings of nutritional science and dieting, and I thought it might be fun to impose myself on the interwebs as a food blogger. Or just as a blogger... perhaps. Aha! Indeed. But on a more serious note, I hope to achieve two or more of the following: I need to write more, and I hope this little sideline may help me achieve that. I...