Let’s go Phils!
Sure, it’s 45 degrees and misting outside. Still, I can’t lie: I have baseball fever. It’s opening day, and while I don’t have tickets to this afternoon’s game, that hasn’t stopped me from wearing my Chase Utley jersey for the first time since I received it for my birthday. Read the rest of this entry »
I had never actually made a stew before, but a package of burgoo mix received as a gift, combined with a number of people coming by to drink the excess beer belonging to a brewer friend seemed to present a prime opportunity.
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This is someone else’s picture. Trust me, the one I cooked looked just as good.
Unlike other American cities like New York, Chicago, and even Ann Arbor, Michigan, Indo-Chinese cooking has apparently not yet caught on in Philadelphia. And that’s a shame.
Continuing on yesterday’s farm theme, cows aren’t the only animals running around Hendricks Farm. Either the sow pictured above or her companion, who were both about a week away from producing a litter, is now a mother.
That is indeed a streak of blood across pig’s nose, sustained while battling with her friend for a heaping bucket of beet scraps.
These pigs are evidently at the foreground of Hendricks Farm’s nascent charcuterie operation, something I’m looking forward to following up on.
Keep up the good work, buddy.
I’m not going to lie- like everyone in this article, I’m hip to this concept of eating local foods. In that case, I may even be willing to consider Trent Hendricks to be a rock star. After all, the cheese that he’s making on his sixty-acre dairy are much more impressive than ricotta, which requires no aging. Read the rest of this entry »
“Too much of one thing is good for nothing,” sang reggae artist Max Romeo, suggesting in the roots reggae anthem “Aily and Ailaloo” that a man shouldn’t work all the time and should smoke ganja to unwind.
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I’d be content to eat this seven mornings a week
I’ve only recently admitted New York’s supremacy over Philadelphia in the realm of bagels. For years, a mistaken sense of local pride convinced me that the two were, at the very least, comparable. Too many trips to New York, with mornings featuring bagels from Murray’s and H and H in Manhattan, and most recently Bergen in Brooklyn, must have pounded some objectivity into me.
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No- not this Jim’s- the West Philly one. The one without any google images.
I couldn’t start writing about food in Philadelphia without paying notice to one hoary standard, the item that people across the nation associate with the city, the cheesesteak. While many here, with justifiable cause, have recently asserted the roast pork sandwich to be the true champion on a soft Italian roll, I can’t entirely turn my back on thinly sliced grilled beef, provolone cheese and properly caramelized onions.
