even*cleveland: gifts for burnt-out home cooks (who still have to make dinner)

gifts for burnt-out home cooks (who still have to make dinner)

A kit to make Xi’an Famous Foods' 'biang biang' noodles, because slapping dough against the counter is a needed catharsis after two years of pandemic cooking.

Measuring spoons of pleasing geometry.

A jar for storing vinegar (instead of letting it brew in your heart).

Cheerful scrubbies to help in summiting what my friend Abbey calls "dish mountain."

A box of tropical fruits, for a taste of sunshine.

"A rare and amusing book about food, about those who eat it and those who prepare it." (Also available here.)

Sky plates to make any meal a little more magical.

Cocktail picks, because crafting elaborate garnishes > crafting elaborate meals.

A stylish toaster oven with the all-important "pizza" setting.

Dedicated cooking clogs, to cosplay at cheffiness.

Edible gold flakes, for making boxed mac and cheese EXTREMELY fancy.

A case of highly rated ramen, because noodle soup cures all. (Other amazing options here).

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust.

Italo Calvino

Why didn't she try collecting something? It didn't matter what. She would find it gave an interest to life, and there was no end to the little curiosities one could easily pick up.

Henry James

gifts for burnt-out home cooks (who still have to make dinner)

contact

elsewhere

Labels