Cravings And Yearnings.

Ever pick up a Vogue magazine and sigh over the unattainable, yet fabulous shoes that cost upwards of a thousand dollars?  Or, fantasize about an outfit as you gaze at exquisitely dolled up mannequins in store windows?  It doesn't have to be either, I'm assuming most of my readers are female.  But in case I'm wrong, men: ever want something divine that you can't have?  My guess is we all at times have pined over something out of reach, which, in my case this hungry morning, is Salmon Hash with Dilled Creme Fraiche, direct from the Cooking Fresh magazine I have been drooling over since I woke up.  It's funny, I've owned this magazine since "Fall 2008" and I don't think I'll ever let it go.  It's my favorite cooking magazine, though it seems I only need one issue.  I can't bring myself to buy another until I get around to getting through these recipes.  Moderation is best for me, as I might implode with desire from owning just one issue.

But oh.  Salmon.  Creme Fraiche (you know how I love you).  Capers.  Dill.  Poached eggs. For breakfast.  I would whip you up in a flash, devour you even faster were the salmon you call for accessible, and were it not Wednesday again.  Wednesday.  The day of no more ingredients.   The day of skimpy pizza.  At least we might have a red sauce this week.  There is one fat tomato fit to burst, perched on my windowsill, though it may not exist after lunch.  

So I sit, sigh, and proceed to fill my morning with an unspeakable longing for that which I cannot create.  I'm ashamed of myself, it's true.  I should try to make the local lifestyle look appealing, not marred with cravings and yearnings for wild caught smoked salmon (with capers and creme fraiche).  

Perhaps if this recipe appeals to you like it does to me, you could make it and tell me if it's any good, tell me if it's worth drooling over.  If I can't have it, someone else should. It's only right.  All I ask is that you buy wild caught salmon and not farm raised if you can afford it.  (Click the link.  It provides helpful information over the question of sustainable fish practices vs. nutritional value in wild salmon.) In fact, I might do the same... I know a guy...

The recipe is here should you so desire it.  Someone gave it a lame review, but I am ignoring them. We don't pay attention to the naysayers - in life or in cooking reviews that look mouthwatering. I've had a dish that was quite similar and thought it was heavenly.  

I'll be back in later to report on what we managed to scrounge up for dinner.  We'll make it interesting (John can't skimp out and eat cereal because we're out of milk).  We have a little bit of bowtie pasta, garlic and that ruby red tomato.  So, maybe this?: 

You'll be the first to know.

Reality By Noon.

Oh, what a day.  Really now, what a day.  Saturday mornings should be easy, smooth, a little slice of morning heaven, refined and (I'm getting demanding here, but...) perfect.  That's the way I like them.  Even if the soft-focus perfection sharpens into a less than dreamy reality by noon, I'm alright, as long as they start out cheerful and sweetended with a blueberry pancake or two.

This morning was a blurred, barely-have-time-to-pour-coffee, let's-go-to-the-market-and-get-dill-rightaway! kind of morning.  A, "...quick! I need to stop at that gas station and get batteries for my camera!" kind of morning. We were scurrying to the car with our scraggy bedhead and sloshing coffee cups, headed to welcome the return of the Farmers Market, only to realize there were two cars in the park parking lot.  No table stands, no vegetables, no farmers, no market, no dill.  Just John and me, and my camera, bleary eyed and confused.  (It opens next week.)

By the time we got back home, I wanted to start over.  I wanted my sleepy Saturday morning back, but it was so quick and sly about turning into a soggy noon.  We hadn't eaten, either, so I had little choice but to make my Buttermilk Biscuits With Dill without dill and buttermilk. Hmph.  They were sorry looking things: a little burned, a little mealy.  The fig jam and whisked eggs helped but they weren't worthy of you, dear reader.  

Then, most of the afternoon I was confronted with images like this:

and dishes like this:

And now it's almost time for dinner and I'm feeling a little defeated.  I might beg John to take me to a restaurant, simply as a grudge against having no dill and no happy morning Farmer's Market.  But I feel very bad about not having a recipe for you today, not even a little something except some overwhelming chore-pictures, so I think we'll try to stay in tonight and figure out a way to make it up to you.  You're loved.  See you tomorrow.