In a season of excess, sometimes it’s good to just admit to what you really REALLY want.

“Warm Nuts.”

If you have to begin Portland Cocktail Week somehow, this isn’t a bad way to go about doing it. At least, according to the notes that I’m looking back through now, from several thousand miles (and glugs of alcohol) away.

Although the main reason for driving and RV across the country was to help my friend with her move, Portland Cocktail Week was my ultimate destination. And I was reminded of this every time our large vehicle encountered grooved pavement and the box of miscellaneous spirits and liqueurs we had on board would rattle. Like the promise of immeasurable wealth jingling in the ears of all those people who made a similar pilgrimage out West for the Gold Rush, the clinking bottles kept me moving forward towards the liquid lode that surely awaited me in Portland.

If you decide to have kids, make sure they come out speaking Italian. As children lean over painted green and blue fences to marvel at the sheep and goats, exclamations of “Que bello!” add romance to any situation.

ed note: Greetings, friends! We are coming back from our hiatus with a vengeance in November, much like a culinary, literary Bruce Willis, with hot festival coverage concerning two of our favorite things: cheese and adult beverages. Lena Webb and I will be reporting from Portland Cocktail Week, and the intrepid Marie-Laure has been busy attending glittering cheese festivals abroad in Europe. Tune in for the new coverage! Salut! And now, for a trailer-park missive

The final chapter of The End Of Love In Food, courtesy of our coastal Atlantic poet.

After spending months pruning and trellising, hunched over among the bees in the shade of the pungent leaves singing “where is my twine?” it’s finally tomato season. Between the Septoria, potato leaf beetles and mini-monsoons we’ve been experiencing, I’m all too eager to see them off the vine and sealed away safely in jars. But no matter how nice it will be to have home-grown tomato sauce in the winter, I still need to go on my annual tomato bender.

Cooking for one, in verse.

Jägermeister is the Eliza Doolittle of the digestif family. While ordering drinks containing Cynar and Fernet Branca somehow turns you into a dashing, daring connoisseur, asking for something with Jäger imparts a kind of scuzzy feeling. Like you just realized you forgot to brush your teeth this morning, and now you’re asking for Jäger. Because most drinks with Jägermeister involve fire, Red Bull, and Bad Choices, it’s hard to take this spirit seriously. If Jägermeister were a person, it would be a man who cuts the sleeves off his t-shirts to make tank tops.

Words and whey, from our resident poet.