I am working on a long post about Andrew Solomon's "Far From the Tree" and, what else, right wing anxiety about the future of a multi cultural America in which our "descendants" and "heirs" don't look like us or sound like us or want what we thought we wanted. But first I see before me, ready to my hand, that most delectable of places: a clean kitchen. And naturally I want to detour through it and make it rich and warm and happy and messy so I'm off to prep a sabbath dinner.
Chicken in milk and sage with stuffing
kale and dried cherries
tarte tatin or another version, maybe small open faced carmelized apple tarts.
Will my chicken come robed in a "chasuble of golden skin" like Francoise's? I hope so.