I’ve been dying for some proper moules marinières. Alas, there’s no where on the west side of Cleveland (anymore) that can prepare them properly now that Bar Symon is no more.
Fed up with this injustice, I took matters into my own hands, and looked up a simple moules frites recipe and tweaked it just slightly, mainly to for-go the frites (hense the marinières).
Of course it may be that I’ve been craving them, but I believe I out-did every restaurant in which I’ve ever had moules frites or marinières. Add in the crusty bread for sopping up the insanity that is the broth left behind, and frankly, I had a moment. Or two.
It wasn't an awkward date night either, I just ate both bowls.
Sometimes, if you want it done right, you just have to do it yourself.
I keep wanting to hurl good-natured jabs your way, impugning your sexuality (questionable), your love life (solitary), and your literary sense (undeveloped would be kind), but in reality, I’m just really, really hungry right now and curse you for your appetite and insensitivity in gloating about making enough for two but devouring it all with nary a drop to spare or share…
Seriously. Cursing you right now with raised, clenched fist.
Hmmm, I read that comment as “Crushing you” as opposed to “cursing you.” Actually, that gives me an idea. You crush him, and I’ll eat the (non-) frites!
I just had to come back to this picture. It’s beautiful. I want to blow it up, print it out, and paste it on my bedroom ceiling.
…well, maybe the wall, because I’m a side sleeper.