I currently have a pastry shell in the oven blind baking. On the stove is a pan with 4 slices of pepper bacion cut into lardons rendering off. After I remove that I’m sweat off an onion in the bacon fat before making a basic egg base for the quiche.
I suppose it’s become a cliche that real men do eat quiche after all. It’s a chilly night in SF with the fog rolling in over Buena Vista and the wind buffeting the house. A perfect night for quiche if you ask me.
Quiche has so many layers of decadence to it’s simple nature. A salty pork, a savory onion, some vibrant herbs, and a delicate crust come together to make a filling meal. At its heart it is a pie, but more so.
Add quiche to list of things that I’ve found myself rushing home to make. Cooking has once again taken its place in my day to day as a source of meditation and calm. When exactly it stopped I don’t know. Probably in the weeks before I moved across the country and found myself working for a catering company that sucked the life out of me a little more everytime I went in. I’ve ponderedd stopping by there when I’m in NY but they’ll probably be closed for the holidays. I don’t think they’ll miss me.
I caught myself humming happily this afternoon coming home on the muni thinking about the trip, and knowing that I was going to get to come back home at the end of it.
This morning as I was walking to work from the MUNI, I overheard two women talking.
“They’re sending me to New York next week.”
“Who the fuck knows. All I know is I don’t want to go.”