By the time I came in to the café for work on Sunday afternoon (I earn my bread by bashing coffee beans around and grilling sandwiches at a small artisan coffee house), our feast was already famous.
¨That homemade hot sauce sounded amazing¨ Jeff commented, as he layered cured meats onto a length of baguette.
¨What? . . . Oh, yeah, Sean’s brew. It was like bloody smelling salts,” I replied, grinning.
It had indeed been a potent concoction. “What’s this?” I asked Sean, bending over the stove and taking a hearty sniff at the pot only to find my nostrils assaulted with a powerful battalion of spices and vinegar. Spluttering and sneezing, I staggered back from the stove and lent against the counter until my vision cleared. “Oh, that’s just my hot sauce,” murmured Sean, quietly stirring another pot. “I got inspired to try making one while I was reading that book, the one about the history North Carolina barbecues. ¨I never knew that there was this huge debate about Eastern versus Piedmont styles of cooking. Apparently they’re like the Israelis and Palestinians of barbecue. They‘re not kidding.”
Back in the café, my thoughts began to wander from homemade hot sauce and on to the prospect of another feast . . . What would I make, I mused, shoving a tray of dishes into the industrial washer. I had promised Sean to make him British style pork pie, a delight that is sadly foreign to most people in this country. Maybe this weekend? And perhaps I should take advantage of the ripening blackberries that are rapidly blushing purple in this hot August sun? Blackberry infused vodka, I mumbled indecisively to myself.
I often spend days or even weeks in a delicious delirium of menu indecision.
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