edie's bathrobe

I've let myself go lately. Well, at least as far as the blog goes (and my trips to the gym, but this isn't about that). Personally, I can't think of a better excuse than Thanksgiving to get back on board. I'm spending my holiday in Stowe, Vermont, where the only reason I rip myself off the couch is to demolish pints of my boys Ben & Jerry and cook in a kitchen that, on its own, is double the size of my apartment.

Every year, we get grand ideas of freshly baked bread to go along with the whole Thanksgiving feast. We like to do the soft kinds -- like challah or potato rolls -- and, just in case, we grab a bag of store-bought potato rolls in case our homemade rendition doesn't make the cut. (Last year, for instance, I forgot to add the eggs, and then proceeded to drop the dense unleavened rocks on the floor). Behold:

This year, however, was different. While the turkey was in the oven, the cranberry sauce was chilling in the fridge and sacks of potatoes sat ready to be boiled, cut and mashed, I made traditional Parker House Rolls (click for Bobby Flay's recipe). They're perfect for sopping up gravy, making mini sandwiches with leftovers or just eating on their own. With just a touch of sugar in the dough, these yeasty rolls are best when brushed with melted and sprinkled with sea salt as they leave the oven warm and plump. They're really the perfect Thanksgiving roll. 

These days, I'm working the nine-to-five grind and living in a new apartment in the Lower East Side. It's the size of a shoebox but I'm lovin' it like a new mama does her fresh, alien-like newborn. 

When my parents came to New York to help with the big move, we matched our time spent laying on the floor measuring our few walls with food -- all of the food. And, in the spirit of getting to know the neighborhood, one of these parental-joined bites was just down the street at Russ & Daughters.

I'm not going to belabor the point about how this place is an institution. Bottom line: the smoked fish is, as we knew, otherworldly. After making a spin-the-bottle decision on the Norwegian Salmon lox, capers, tomato, red onion and a smear of scallion cream cheese, I was on board. And, hey, I got to try my first bialy since an everything bagel wasn't standing in my way. The bagel delivery man was late -- I'll cut him some slack. 

More often than not, I leave the office with two things on the brain: binging on some made-for-Netflix and taking carry-out Tikka Masala to the face. It’s really a waste – a mind numbing, tummy expanding waste. But today was different. Rather than battling the post-work slump with happy hour drinks, my friends Alexa, Jackie and I made our way west, to Pier 63 at the Hudson River Park for a free outdoor showing of Silver Linings Playbook. We stretched out on Jackie’s blanket as the sun dipped behind New Jersey, and I didn’t get through the first mention of “Excelsior” without lunging for a snack.

Luckily, the event had organic Je & Jo ice cream on hand, and that was just the food group I was looking for. The local artisanal company pairs hand-made ice cream with all-natural cookie dough, with flavors like Nutella with Hazelnut Shortbread, Fresh Mint with Lemon-Lavender Shortbread, Local Peach with Cobbler Crisp and so much more. Seriously – it’s a miracle I made a decision. For the steep price ($4 per cup), Je & Jo initially seemed like a disappointing option. Clad in cardboard like one of those Carvel ice creams you give at little kids’ birthday parties, you peel back the top and dig into the ice cream with a little wooden shovel. Looking for something simple, I went for the spartan Vanilla Bean ice cream with chocolate chip cookie dough. The ice cream was as silky as they come, and each morsel of unearthed dough had me digging deeper for more. The flavor was a true, resounding vanilla straight from the bean itself. In no way did it reek of the boring, buttoned-up starkness expected out of plain-Jain vanilla.

Alexa, on the other hand, went for the Nutella. Smooth and chocolaty, the pieces of hazelnut shortbread harmonized with each creamy bite. And since the ice cream was individual-sized, we finished in time to zero in on what matters most (Bradley Cooper).

Visit Je & Jo at their storefront, or scout out the owners as they deliver their ice cream to the masses by bike.

I'll take a hot dog from the dude on the corner, thrown at my face on game day or griddled up in my own backyard. No matter what, my typical hot dog comes the classic American way, with a glide of spicy mustard, that vital squiggle of tomato red and a sprinkling of finely chopped onion and pickles. Nowhere in that time-honored equation is there discussion of cilantro or pickled cabbage or, praise Heinz, Pâté. That was until I made my way to Smorgasburg in Brooklyn--a weekly foodie festival in Williamsburg, two Saturdays ago.

Attending Smorgasburg on this particular day was the most misguided choice, with temperatures in the upper upper nineties and nothing but light grey asphalt to plunge me into a pre-lunch grumbling sweatstorm. But, we arrived--and we were there to eat. Lunch hour spent at Smorgasburg typically involves milling about, reading menus intently and carefully choosing your samplings. But it was so damn hot on this particular day that there wasn't a way in hell. 

My friend Nelle and I split the beef Vinh dog (pictured above) -- fixed banh-mi style with aioli, pâté, cukes, pickled carrot and daikon, cilantro and hot, hot jalepeños. As dogs do, it went down quick, and all I was left with was the piping hot fire of the peppers. 

I kept my second dog all to myself, though the first was probably my favorite. The Mel + Steve Dog is cloaked in a magenta Asian slaw, studded with sesame seeds and green onions. These dogs were good, inventive while still staying relatively true to the classic dog.   Still, I've never appreciated the vanishing act of the hot dog -- chomp, chomp, kaput -- because I could likely eat these for days, heat and all. 

A Munich Pretzel with Spicy Mustard + Cornichon All washed down with a pint of Schneider Edel-Weiss

College came to a close more than two months ago. Since I remained on campus since commencement, I've resumed the same activities as my collegiate life--without the, well, studying part. I wake up at 11am, go out on Thursday nights and consume the majority of my calories post-2am.

This prolonged sense of irresponsibility has its perks, sure, but I'm finding myself missing the untampered version of my college experience, the one where getting up for class would be painful but staying up late was no problem at all. In that world, my relaxation time felt like something I earned and deserved to relish.

As a post-grad with just a couple of days left till my new job starts, I can't help but think back to a time when my friends Kosta, Nelle and I spent the remaining hours of post-class sunlight sprawled out on the grass (well, one of us might have been playing hooky). With Bon Me's blue food truck parked just paces away from us, we scattered cardboard containers alongside our book bags. Chopsticks threaded through our fingers, we dug into Bon Me's brown rice bowls of Chinese BBQ pork, bean sprouts, shredded carrots, daikon and cilantro. Because, you know, we deserved it. 

Just two weeks after my college graduation, my parents and I made our way to Coppa in Boston's South End. Coppa's known for Italian small plates, wood-fired pizzas, housemade pastas and some serious wine, and we made sure to graze from each section of the menu. First of all, my dad and I snacked on the pickled mackerel (pictured above), which comes pervaded with candied citrus and pistachio. I understand--many of us aren't looking to swallow down a pickled fish at a moments notice, but it was an elegantly vital menu component of our meal, with the fish's ambrosial citrusy edge. 

The pizza (pictured below) is a reflection of our group's chronic indecisiveness, as we opted for half margherita and half ramp rather than committing to one. The former is streaked with fresh basil and graced with an expertly sweetened sauce, and and the latter comes with a sunny side egg dropped right on top to compliment the wild leeks. 

All future flames should know I'm big on meatballs. Serve 'em to me Lady and the Tramp style and I'll be smitten forever. My dad's are the first thing I request upon waltzing in the door at home. Searing them on the outside in a pan first, he lets them reach that moist medium rare by simmering in the sauce. At Coppa, the Meatballs al Forno were a bit softer than my dad's interpretation. But, steeped in a tomato gravy, they're so good that pasta isn't the least bit necessary. 

My biggest regret of June 2013 was failing to take a photo of Coppa's Arancini, the expertly fried risotto balls stuffed with fontina cheese. Do me a solid and don't go home without them. As one of my final meals in Boston before I moved to New York City, Coppa's at the top. And when I come back to town for a visit, those meatballs are all mine. 

There was a day in my life when I sat down and ate an entire jar of pickles. It wasn't out of hunger, or even out of pride. It just happened. You see, I have a thing for a good pickle. Last weekend, Boston Calling Music Festival only egged me on, with its line-up of music that could only be cherished with a few pickles on hand.

When the weather went from icy rain storm to summer over the span of two days, I rang in the forecast with numerous visits to Grillo's Pickles, a Boston-based pickle operation. When the company isn't hand-packing pickle spears into jars, it spreads pickle joy out of a wooden cart. That very cart rolled into Government Center on Sunday, and I couldn't help but eye Grillo's in between acts. Throughout the day, I'd feast on spicy pickles--pervaded with dill, garlic--plucked straight from the bucket with a pair of tongs. These pickles came down with a crunch, and for a dollar a pop--for 2-3 spears depending on size--even the music couldn't keep me away. 

It's been a crazy couple of weeks. I've been capped and gowned, photoed and toasted, lectured and best wished. These days, I'm a college graduate--and things are really friggin' scary. Though I don't know where I'll be in the next week, month or especially year, I can say with confidence that the past four years have defined me in ways that I will never be capable of expressing. My time here and Boston has transformed me, and it comes down to the people I met. From matriculation to commencement day, we've shared meals in dining halls, sushi in my living room, steak and ale pies abroad in London and more slices of 2am pizza than I'm willing to admit or able to remember. 

Last week, just after finals and just before graduation, my friend Kosta and I shared one of our numbered side-by-side meals at Neptune Oyster in Boston's North End. The space is tiny and can probably squeeze in about twenty people when each diner sucks in. We waited two hours to snag two bar seats, and spent the time milling around the cobblestone streets. When the seats were ours, we slid down a few oysters, had a heap of fried clams and split a hot, buttered lobster roll. The kid's a good sharer--what can I say?

I'm not sure where my posts will be written in the future, but you can bet that mealtime will be shared with the important people in my life no matter where I am. Even if it requires a plane ride. 

Cheers to four years, Boston. 

College (better known as the best years of your life) is just about coming to an end. My finals are kaput and emotions are running high, so all there's left to do is celebrate. 

Needless to say, I celebrated a little too hard the other night (I had like two beers, mom), so the day after was an absolute waste, leaving me posted up on the couch to nurse my wounds. My roommate/best friend Arielle--who I travelled to Thailand with two summers ago--swears by Tom Yum Noodle Soup from the campus Thai place just down the street. If she's sick, you can bet one of those foggy plastic containers is stocked in our fridge. It's sweet, sour and so spicy that it makes you cough. It's crunchy with green onions and bean sprouts, and the noodles soak up all of those pesky impurities--at least in my dreams. It has the same curative qualities of grandma's chicken soup, but it kicks that my-head-hurts sass right out of you.

dulce de leche froyo + hot fudge + cookie dough + Oreo + Butterfinger

You know you've got a problem when your roommate says, "cooome on--can you write a new post already?" Forgive me. I realize Jews and gentiles alike are probably over images of matzah overstaying their welcome. 

Here on my end, the last 48 hours were spent in New York City, doing big girl things like going to meetings, sitting alone in cafes and eating broccoli. With a quad shot latte flowing through my veins, I devoured a broccoli sub at No. 7 Sub. Trust me when I say this is a good idea. 

Before you get all "whaaat--broccoli sub?" on me, just know that this decision was made after consulting nearly every New Yorker in my phone. No. 7 has all kind of quirky options--like Zucchini Parm and Mongolian Tofu--that are known for being crazy good, but the broccoli sub had the biggest following by far. It's an all-kinds-of-crunchy layering of lychee muchim, ricotta salata and pine nuts, with the bread adding that vital crackly soft component. Sitting on a bench in Madison Square Park, I noshed away on the most delectable composition of broccoli the lunch world has ever seen.