Mushroom bourguignon

bourguignon 2

So, in case your Facebook friends aren’t my Facebook friends and didn’t let you know that it snowed the other day (who needs a weather app when you have Facebook on your phone?), it uh, snowed the other day. Ugh. I feel like snow shouldn’t be allowed to happen until December and/or the trees are bare. Also, I think snow is pretty stupid unless it cancels everything unpleasant and involving operating a vehicle. Or a shovel.

I do an awful lot of moping when it comes to winter. Sure, I love my red pea coat, and Thanksgiving, and Christmas, but once the warmth and joy of the holidays pass, I gird myself for relentlessly gray and cold January (and February, and usually March) with only my pea coat as a bright spot. Unless you have a birthday, nothing good happens in January. Everyone’s in the midst of a holiday hangover, trying to content themselves with carrot sticks and sad salads when really, the weather demands stews and roasts and scoops of mashed potatoes. In December, it’s dark at, like, 5 p.m., but the presence of Christmas lights makes that okay. In January, that early, undecorated darkness is like a giant middle finger.

See? It’s not even Thanksgiving – I have more than a month before the hated post-holiday winter sets in, and I’m already woebegone.

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French onion soup

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I don’t know about you, but I looove me a bowl of French onion soup. Sometimes, there’s nothing better than cracking through that crispy lid of cheese, creme brulee style, and diving into a (scalding hot, often) bowl of buttery, caramelized onions in a savory, well-seasoned beef broth. And I’m not too picky about it, either. Sure, you can probably screw up French onion soup, but I generally enjoy even the most lackluster bowls. There’s a saying about pizza (and sex) that implies that even when pizza is bad, it’s still pretty good.

That’s a filthy lie.

However, when French onion soup is bad… well, it’s still pretty okay, and I’m still probably going to enjoy it. (My father is probably tremendously disappointed in me right now for saying that, and Dad, if you’re reading this, I’d like to remind you that pretty much all the other wisdom and good taste you’ve imparted on me has stuck. Except for MacArthur’s Park. I’m on Mom’s team in that department.)

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