Sandwiches are curious foods. While leavened bread has been eaten with food since 4000 BCE, the sandwich wasn’t conceived until the 18th century. Its predecessor was presumably a fresher open-faced version of the English trenchers, where slices of meat and butter were placed atop stale bread “plates.” The story goes that John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich, England conceived of the food as a convenient way to eat without skipping a hand at cards (Hawaii was also originally named The Sandwich Islands after the Earl).

Global warming apparently has our spring in a sweaty headlock. The first warm weekend of the year is the perfect time to kick back with a beer, forget for a moment that our planet is melting, and catch some glimpses of bare skin. This weekend’s ridiculous ensembles, pregnant women about to burst, and pasty calves and shoulders did not disappoint. HOT. But why do 9 million New Yorkers all have to have cravings for popsicles, watermelon, and ice cream at the same hour on the same day? Today I wanted a popsicle bad. Alas, I couldn’t find a single one without HFCS in the stores. And while I probably am becoming more of a New Yorker by the day, I still refuse to wait in line at one of the many ice cream shops. What is one to do? Make popsicles, of course. Since I only have one tray, I will be making pops all week to cover the blackberry, coconut, lime, and mango flavors I so desire. Today’s popsicles were filled with melon, mint, honey, and creamy Greek yogurt. We snuck a couple an hour ago, and while they’re not quite frozen, they hit my popsicle spot dead on. (Yes, I have a small cluster of taste buds that only detect sweet, cold foods.) Don’t you love having 20 of something?

Being a perceptive cook really means doing the bidding of your food. It’s a good day when you just happen to have a molasses sweet and cornmeal gritty anadama bread (from the Bread Baker’s Apprentice) that is crying out for some grilled cheese and tomatoes. If on that day it happens to be 80 degrees (seriously?) and both your cheese and brow are sweating, you just pair it with a little acidic salad to refresh your palate.

I’ve had the urge lately to make a bite size piece of something fluffy, sweet, and totally unnatural. I am told this requires gelatin. I also happen to have a totally unhealthy relationship with marshmallows. I will indulge in campfire when I have to, but much prefer the pillowy, melty, homemade style from City Bakery. We’re on a baker’s schedule lately, so at 10:30pm on Wednesday it was go time. We needed gelatin and molasses (for an anadama sweet bread), which we guessed was a mission impossible. These once typical ingredients are not generally in high demand at the Manhattan supermarket/market/$8 peanut butter bodgea, and especially not in the stiletto and cobblestone nether region of the Meatpacking District. Besides, why would you buy ingredients for bread and marshmallows when you can just purchase the products for under $5 with money left over for a couple of beers? Because I am the master of my belly and homemade is more delicious.

We spent this weekend visiting mom and pop Pelletier in Dighton. In spite of Saturday’s rain we enjoyed ourselves splendidly, visiting a couple of Portuguese bakeries, a supermarket, and a restaurant called TA (Terra Nostra) in Fall River, MA.

“Wild fermentation is the opposite of homogenization and uniformity, a small antidote you can undertake in your home, using the extremely localized populations of microbial cultures present there to produce your own unique fermented foods. What you ferment with the organisms around you is a manifestation of your specific environment, and it will always be a little different.” - Wild Fermentation, Sandor Ellix Katz

It’s a mellow Sunday and one of the first gorgeous days of spring. Outside thousands of New Yorkers are tucking into baked eggs and already on their second Bloody Mary.

My mother, Matt, and I are inside discussing the flavor whereabouts of a certain Potato-Leek soup we’re attempting out of The America’s Test Kitchen. We’ve decided that the recipes in the book are deliberately more about technique than flavor, partially because we love Cook’s Illustrated and want to give them props and partially because we can’t imagine why the soup is soo bland. The traditional Vichyssoise and this hot adaptation may be mild, true. But while my mother rightly pointed out, “it is potato and leek soup, so it’s not like it’s going to kick ass,” we’ve spent the brunch period building some elegant flavors out of these potatoes and leeks.