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The French Montana

Pen & Palate The French Montana Cocktail

Illustration: Tram Nguyen

 

Let’s talk baby names. I’m not pregnant, nor do I plan to be any time soon. (Can you hear that *creeaaaakkkk*? That’s my empty womb calling out to you.) I am at that age where everyone I know is either popping out babies or just about to make that leap, so the topic of what to name a child has been on the forefront of my mind lately. Every so often, I like to run an up-to-date list by Lucy, just to get a rise out of her. (Some recent candidates: DRose, Theory, and the letter “K”. All of these would work equally well for a boy or a girl!) After Lucy asks what the hell is wrong with me and voices concerns about the welfare of my hypothetical children, I usually reconsider.

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Secret Garden Rhubarb Fizz

Pen and Palate rhubarb gin fizz

illustration: tram nguyen

A couple of years ago, my boyfriend Rob bought this house in Pennsylvania. It’s near his parents, and a lake, and it’s relatively close to New York City, and it has these gorgeous glass windows that, in addition to letting in lots of sunlight during the day, have the added benefit of being very terrifying at night, because the house is in the middle of the woods and when it’s dark outside the murderers can see in but you can’t see out. It’s spooky in a lightly thrilling way, which I consider a real plus.

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A Song of Ice and Fire

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Smoked ice.

Just wrap your head around that for a moment. Conceptually so clean, so minimal, like a perfect Oscar Wilde epigram. This delightful magic trick is courtesy of everyone’s favorite falafel chef, Mr. Grant Achatz. I’d use these in a summery cocktail made with pineapple juice, dark rum, agave syrup, maybe a slice or two of jalapeno, and mint; the smoked ice adding a depth and balance to the brightness and acidity of the fruit.

Now for the fire part, lets talk stovetop smokers. It had only recently come to my attention that such a thing existed, and as soon as I found out (at like, 2 in the morning–I woke Romeo up to tell him our lives had forever changed but he didn’t seem too impressed) I ordered one. I’m usually anti-gadget, (falsely) believing in my heart of hearts that I am a minimalist, but this is reasonably priced, doesn’t take up too much space, doubles as a roasting pan, and it totally works! I have been steadily pumping my foods with carcinogens on the stove from the comfort of my tiny Chicago kitchen, with great success, We’ve smoked salmon, fat little cherry tomatoes, and soon…ice!

 

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The Paris-Roubaix Cocktail

pen_palate_paris_roubaix_cocktail

Illustration: Tram Nguyen

 

Lucy was in town the other weekend,which obviously made it the best two days of my life. To prepare for her impending arrival, I made plans to buy fresh flowers, stock the fridge with tasty snacks, and scrub my apartment until it was absolutely spotless. After a few minutes of sweeping up the dust bunnies behind the fridge, I thought to myself, “This is hard and boring.” So I stopped and decided I’d have no choice but to use my body as a physical barrier between the kitchen wall and Lucy if she ever felt the inclination to move the fridge. The best I could manage was a clean towel and letting the Roomba take a single lap around my living room.

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Boozy Mexican Hot Chocolate

Spicy Spiked Hot Chocolate Pen and Palate

illustration: tram nguyen

 

I spent New Year’s Day curled up on the couch cultivating a nice hangover and enjoying my favorite winter pastime, which is binge-watching television, specifically IFC’s new French zombie series Les Revenants (which is better than it sounds). Every 55 minutes or so, however, I was forced to emerge from my couch cocoon to find the next episode on a shady illegal streaming site with a humanoid pot leaf as its corporate logo. To pass the time while waiting for each episode to load, I could not help but mentally replay the events of the previous night at a friend’s New Year’s Eve party.  I’m generally a pretty happy drunk and I had a great evening, but at some point over the course of the night my true (jerk) colors came out.  Did I really accuse that lovely woman, a friendly acquaintance that I’ve had maybe half a dozen conversations with, of having white privilege simply because she had the audacity to enjoy Lost in Translation? My closer friends didn’t get off easily either. I also recall accusing one buddy of being “the biggest misogynist I know” and “racist”, both of which are patently untrue.

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