Not a big foodie weekend, despite Goetta Fest and Pangyri. I still consider the latter my favorite food festival in Cincinnati, but I skipped it this year upon realizing that every year it basically consists of me standing in an hour-long gyro line, on a blacktop, on what always feels like the hottest day of the year. Getting attacked by a booger almost seems like a relief.
And now with my computer circling the bowl, I’ve been scrambling to offload my data, most of which consists of hundreds upon hundreds of food pictures- most of which are just duplicates of something I already posted. A good number, however, have never seen the light of day, which got me thinking about why.
It’s somewhere. Even now, it stalks me.
After about fifteen years of living in Cincinnati, I am finally to the point where I can behave myself at Jungle Jims.
I no longer feel an urge to buy durian fruit ‘just to see what it smells like,” or try to convince myself that I really really will use two big stalks of fresh lemongrass. I’m honest with myself about the honey I need (tupelo or orange blossom, please) and am no longer tempted by the salsa bar, chocolate covered insects, or Indian TV dinners.
But sometimes I do see something extrordinary, and immediately feel the need to plan the entire week’s menu around it. In this case, it was fresh morels.