Holiday from Cooking: Checka's House

That is a photograph of my mother's refrigerator. The cupboard is pretty bare, no? 

I adore Checka who is neither stingy nor ascetic, but her concept of a larder partly explains why I became a baker, if not a tipsy one. 

For that, I blame you, Dad.

I finally fled the construction zone of my home yesterday. The water main burst and there was a mixup with the evil floor guys, some hostility, some anxiety, and I couldn't find a private place to get dressed, so I threw everything in the car and ran to Checka's house where I continue to camp out.

Mark has returned; the eating odyssey proceeds. A fine pho and imperial roll lunch (B+) at a restaurant recommended by Patricia Unterman. A couple of dismal egg custard tarts (C, B-) from random bakeries on Clement Street. Dinner at Bar Tartine (B+) which is lovely and precious and a little smug. Marrow bones: skimpy! Gnocchi: I've made better. No complaints, however, about the coconut parfait.

What a shame I forgot to pack my scale. 

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