Getting comfortable

The day after phō I got down to business and made this. OMG it was so good. Almost like gravy bread, a childhood favorite, although this bread was little upscaled from what we had as kids.

When I think of comfort food my go-to is this sort of thing (or possibly turkey stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, definitely gravy has some involvement). His go-to is some sort of yellow curry-rice-y thing. He didn’t even taste this. When I asked him if he wanted some he looked at me like I’d asked if he wanted to share my anchovies.

My food stylist did not wipe up the edge of the bowl I see.


Seems a bit cliché to say that at times like this comfort food is called for. Because in fact, I am always down with comfort food. But I was, in fact, feeling the need for something simple and comforting, I made chicken noodle soup. It was not my mother’s recipe for chicken soup. I never really liked hers (My paternal grandmother’s was worse—hot water into which she put celery and then showed it a picture of a chicken and god forbid she use salt) unlike most of my mother’s cooking most which I always loved (not bunsteads or salmon loaf, though).

I made my own no-recipe chicken soup and promptly burned the skin off my tongue and scalded the roof of my mouth. So much for comfort.