'loving' lets the body fade away and the soul shine through.
ojovivo

izzy's playlists!
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Peter Solarz
i don't do bad sauce passes
AnasAbdin
DEAR READER

JBB: An Artblog!

blake kathryn
art blog(derogatory)
Mike Driver

â
occasionally subtle

let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

Discoholic đŞŠ
$LAYYYTER
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
đŞź

seen from Canada

seen from Sweden
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Finland

seen from TĂźrkiye

seen from Serbia
seen from Indonesia

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Greece

seen from Malaysia

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Netherlands

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Ireland

seen from United States

seen from Ireland
seen from United States

seen from Jamaica

seen from United States
seen from United States
@propermeals
'loving' lets the body fade away and the soul shine through.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
first in, first out
Plenty of prose has been written about the perplexing nature of dried beans.Â
The fact that they are greedy with your time, needing to be picked through, soaked overnight, and cookedârather vigilantlyâfor several hours. That they are the panacea of home cooking, presumably cheaper, healthier, and less wasteful when reconstituted yourself. And the fact that they pay you back in dividends with their broth & starchy protein. That they are not a simple boiled food to flirt with on a whim, like, say, farro, isnât uttered as often. They are an economical cookâs rite of passage, requiring both time and patience. Once mastered, they deliver on their promise of an everlasting meal, but until then there is a long journey of ruptured and toothsome beans ahead.
My friend Celia and I have been loosely organizing dinners with each other around the notion of waste, more specifically, pantry neglect. We both live alone, so our dinners are an invitation to share a meal without the need to impress or curate. And theyâve become a simple way to hash out our groceries together: any and all contributions are welcome. Celia writes a blog called Litterless, a thought-provoking, humble how-to guide for living less expediently in modern America. Iâve always felt a certain degree of existential angst at the grocery store, knowing that for every perfect apple or lemon, or coiffed head of lettuce, there are dozens less attractive that become refuse. Not to mention the packaging waste we contribute to when we shop the inner aisles. As it turns out, Iâm a consumer in other spaces, too, and so I began to strive for less waste in general. Celia has been a big support in the transitional process.Â
She is leaving Chicago, which makes our tradition more symbolic than actual, but the move sparked a conversation around food clutter. Use what you have before buying more. It seemed like a simple enough theme. First in, first out, as they say in the restaurant world. For foods without a shelf life, this takes a bit of practice and discipline; my dilettantish attempts at homesteading have bordered on doomsday prepper. Shopping and cooking in this way means confronting the dregs of not just your cupboards, but your identity as a consumer. Beans are easily hoarded, so we agreed we would start there. Â
They would need to be soaked and cooked ahead of time, the beans. A surprising amount of plotting & planning is necessary for such a simple meal. Celia arrived at my house with her metal bento box full of an anonymous variety from Rancho Gordo, a souvenir from a trip she took to California where the selection of bulked goods was particularly irresistible. Boiled on the stovetop (on a ninety-five degree day, mind you) they were spilling out of their jackets slightly, but we were not aiming for perfection here: just restraint.
I had plans for them, two to be exact: the first, cooked languidly with potato and tomato and eaten with a spoon; the second, romped around in a pan with dandelion greens, chard, and garlic. Celia made the call and it was an adaptation of Patience Grayâs bean stew that we ended up making. My contribution to the meal was a pomodoro sauce from last nightâs dinner to substitute for canned tomatoes. Three oversized, rather garish-looking ones, busting at their seams, had been in my freezer since September, salvaged from a grocery store where I worked that put up expiring food for staff to take. Sometimes itâs a perk to be on the other side of food waste.
We let the stew simmer, then ladled it into bowls, and finished with olive oil. Itâs a bit thrilling to breathe new life back into food;Â to make a moment out of it. I can think of a few others that would benefit from such resuscitation: the blue corn grits I pulverized into a fine powder months ago, thinking that if I willed it into quick-cooking form itâd be easier to use; several quarts of dried black beans, whoâve been sitting patiently in their jar for quite some time now. And I still have seven different varieties of dried chilis brought back from a trip to Mexico in 2015, each one shuffled between containers whenever I decide to reorganize my things. I had asked the vendor at the market to write out the names of each, so a little piece of torn paper with scribbly Spanish still sits with them.
It was raining outside, so we squeezed ourselves onto the only covered portion of my rickety porch, if you can call it that, to eat. I sat next to my mint plant, picking at the leaves during pauses in conversation, already planning a tisane for afterwards. We agreed the tomatoes had eclipsed the beans, as big fat heirlooms disciplined into silky sauce will do. I donât advise my irresponsible methods for wrangling said tomatoes: taking my chefs knife and bashing one until it splits into two flat surfaces before chopping, but do what you must.Â
Our conversation ebbed and flowed between things we eat and things we own (and things in between), food and the ecology of consumerism being inextricably linked. There was bread, too: my favorite oat porridge sourdough loaf, with its burnished crust perfectly delineated from its custardy interior. It was purchased, impulsively, that afternoon. Old habits die hard. And there were salad greens from Earnest Earth, dressed simply. But the beans were tender and creamy, and gave body, smokiness, andâdare I sayâelegance to the stew, with their little black eyes. They were worth the trouble.
Ballymaloe Week One: A Pilgrimage of Sorts
The months following my decision to attend Ballymaloe Cookery School in Cork, Ireland were pure expectation.
There was the move abroad, the people to meet, and of course, high hopes for the program itself. All of which amounted to loads of anticipation, and a lingering feeling of under-preparedness (what does âfarm lifeâ really require?)
But now Iâm here, sitting in this cottage (another âCoach Houseâ ironically enough) under vaulted ceilings, surrounded by seven incredibly interesting roommates, and Iâve never felt more present.
âThese salads are holy.â
I fell for this place the moment I saw itâs signature green salad. Served at our introductory pizza dinner the first night here, it was a melange of flavorful leaves picked from the garden that morning, all at various stages of maturity. Some were bitter, some spicy, some subtle and buttery or firm and vegetal, all tossed with a few herbs for fragrance and softness. The dressing was really more of a satin slip: a gentle coating of top-notch oil & vinegar lightly tossed in (by hand) until each leaf glimmered, the same way it probably had in that morningâs dew, poetically enough. Itâs this attention to detail that, so far, defines my perception of the cookery school.
Ballymaloe is the voice of a subtlety-sophisticated world of food; prosaic yet profound. Itâs Jane Murphy of Ardsallagh Creameryâs first go at aged goat cheese. Itâs not having shrimp for lunch because the Ballycotton fisherman were unable to catch any that morning. Itâs raw jersey cream and heritage apples, and crates of humble root vegetables coated in earth (we donât say dirt here). Itâs a reverence for tradition and terroir that results in the most exquisitely yellow butter I have ever seen in my life.
The Land of Raw Milk & Honey
Iâm not even embarrassed to admit I got a bit emotional the following morning as students gathered in the garden cafe to enjoy a âcontinentalâ breakfast spread prepared by the Ballymaloe staff: brown and white soda bread, sourdough, and scones with homemade labneh and jams, porridge with salty Irish butter and steeped dried fruits with nuts and honey, three varieties of housemade granolas and muesli, tea cakes and cheeses, and homemade yogurt and kefir from the jersey cows outside.
As impressive as the spread was, it was Darina Allenâs narration, an underscoring of each ingredientâs provenance by the matriarch of Ballymaloe herself, that had me near soggy-eyed with tears of joy.
Darinaâs instance on cooking and consuming with integrity makes each supper here a transcendent act of preserving the traditions of mealtime: always three courses, plus bread, cheese, and green salad; always served with full place settings.
If you look closely, youâll realize that Ballymaloe isnât just teaching what to cook, but how to eat. I was nearly slapped on the wrist the following morning for bringing up a cup of tea to be refilled without its saucer. In fact, all students are armed with (and responsible for mastering) on week one: How to Make The Perfect Cup of Tea. What could be misconstrued as laughably-rigid formula is actually an exercise in upholding the rituals that knit together the fabric of our holistic education here at Ballymaloe and the system that support what we eat and how it gets there.
The Gospel of a Darina
In demo the following day, Darina proclaimed that good cooking is 80% sourcing. Itâs the most concise argument for rustic, minimally-handled peasant cuisine Iâve heard, and one Iâve firmly believed in since Iâve started cooking professionally.
Provenance is the battlecry for a cuisine that lacks gratuitous flourishes (foams, crumbs, streaks etc.): distractions that trick the diner into thinking the entertainment value of food is more important than itâs ability to nourish, or worse: overcompensation for an ingredientâs otherwise sordid past.
Darinaâs knowledge and philosophy is backed by a lifetime of first-hand experience and advocacy in the food world globally (like espousing raw milk and upholding its commercialization in Ireland). It became clear exploring Cork this past weekend how Darina has transformed the food culture in the south of Ireland. The city has transcended its meat-and-potatoes reputation into one thatâs equally simple and salt-of-the-earth, but also intentional, ethical, and nutritious: the sanctity of the farm-to-table movement.
You can see it in the markets (The English, to be exact) and the restaurants that pop up in otherwise sleepy fishing villages along the coast. The freshest catch alongside not-quite-as-local lemons, but with the stems still intact.
My first weekend here felt quintessentially Irish: a trek to the nearby town of Ballycotton to hike alongside the cliffs down its coast. The grass was shaggy and tufted, the air crisp and cleansing, the company comforting and kind; the perfect antidote to my first pints of Guinness in Ireland the nights prior. But the real highlight of the day was a trip to Skinnyâs Diner, a little shack a few yards from the seaside, for fish and chips (or goujons, if you prefer, which, after several clarifying questions, seems to be a more refined name for the breaded or battered ânuggetsâ we have in the states).
Lucky for us, Skinnyâs delivered to the nearby Blackbird pub, so we were able to drink off our hike while we waited for our food. John, Skinnyâs fry cook, possible owner, and sole employee at the time, arrived a short while later with a red cooler in tow. From it he pulled out paper-wrapped packs of the best fish and chips Iâve ever eaten: whole filets of that dayâs catch dressed in a wedge of lemon, sitting alongside piping hot, thick-fried Irish potatoes, homemade tartar sauce, and a tub of mushy peasâjust for fun. Not completely Ballymaloe, but food that captures the story of a place, and the souls who sat down to enjoy it.
âStock is a way of working.â
As sit here reflecting on the week past, another favorite Darina mantra popped into my head, one that necessitates the chef think beyond âdu jour:â Stock is a way of working.
A stockpot signifies that the cook knows how to think beyond that dayâs diner. Itâs a trove of kitchen scraps destined to become the foundation of a weekâs worth of meals. Itâs also the antithesis of what American celebrity chef Rachael Ray branded and marketed as âthe garbage bowlâ back in the early 2000âs: quite literally a plastic mixing bowl for landfill-destined scraps, but more profoundly a symbol of ignorance, over-commercialization, and ecological abuse.
What doesnât make it into the stockpot represent both a beginning and an end: if you compost, itâs a carrot peelâs second chance at life; an opportunity to return to the ground and rally with the surrounding biology to build humus, the fertile topsoil that sustains all life on earth. And if youâre lucky (or deliberate) enough to have laying hens, collected scraps become the inadvertent arbiter of their nutrition (and possibly your breakfast the following day).
But developing the habit of stock has been Darinaâs most prolific message thus far: stock is merely a way of respecting our food by showing gratitude for the plants and animals whoâve worked before to nourish us all.
DUELING FRITTATAS
tomato & basil vs. portobello, thyme & goat cheese +Â Â radish microgreens, spinach, and fermented radish vin

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
ROASTED BUTTERNUT SQUASH + CARROT SOUP
spiced pepitas, sunflower sprouts, extra squash
Cooking For Clients
Chicken laarb with cilantro, mint, and chili-scented nuoc cham
Beef and lamb meatballs with allspice, zaâatar roasted carrots
GRANOLA FOR AUDREY
Double apricot, flax, rosewater, pistachio
with goat milk kefir, olive oil, and turkish honey
PASTA WITH MARINATED ANCHOVIES
gremolata, brown rice spaghetti, cured egg yolk
Projects: Preserved Egg Yolk
Or: how to use up egg yolks when youâre heading out of town and just baked up a storm.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
BREAKFAST BASICS
Poached eggs, sprouted toast, almond butter, strawberry-port preserves, greens, sunflower sprouts
BLACK RICE PORRIDGE
Asian pear, coconut milk, toasted hazelnuts
CHAQUEHUE (blue corn porridge)
Miso butter, roasted peanuts, maple syrup
FERMENTED CELERIAC & TURNIP SOUP
Sprouted toast, shaved bosc pear, toasted hazelnuts
PURPLE HASHÂ
Redbor kale, stokes purple sweet & adirondack blue potato, cheddar cauliflower, sunchoke, crispy prosciutto

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
ROASTED CAULIFLOWERÂ
Fried egg, scallion, maple-tahini dressing
BRAISED GREENSÂ
Roast chicken odd bits, lemon, and prosciutto