Life would be so easy if I just craved Kale.
Unfortunately, the restaurant I worked at as a teenager used the stuff to garnish the salad bar, wrapping the bright and sturdy leaves around plastic tubs full of garbanzo beans and jello squares and soupy ranch dressing. In retrospect this clearly strikes me as a wanton waste of such a noble vegetable.
Still, if it’s three AM and I’m standing in front of my fridge in my pyjamas ready to gnaw off my arm… or if it’s 830 PM and I’m lying face down on my couch with my work shoes off my heels but still technically on because I don’t have the energy to kick them off due to spending the previous 11 hours at work being yelled at by an entire corporate supply chain… I don’t want f***ing kale.
This latest effort to allay my comfort-food cravings reached all the way back into the murky paleolithic prehistory of my baking – before I understood gluten and fat types and pH and not overmixing quickbread and such things. Back to one of the first things I ever baked.