When I was growing up, my parents never made Chicken Kiev. We were raised on buckwheat and kotletkas*, which are the Russian equivalents of rice and beans or pasta and meat loaf. You therefore might understand my amazement when I saw a dish like the Kiev that came both coated in bread and stuffed with spiced buttery deliciousness.
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Lindsay and I took an amazing $15 cooking class followed by a small feast in the town of Hoi An half way down the coast of Vietnam. Our lovely teacher, Lin, five months pregnant and with a hint of an Australian accent, led us through five dishes starting with fresh sweet and sour sauce and culminating with lemongrass chicken wrapped in a banana leaf. In between, Lin dispensed valuable Vietnamese cooking advice as we also learned how to make spring rolls, green papaya salad, and lemon chili garlic stir fried tofu.
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Our food cravings, just like most psychological phenomena, are probably a nice blend, or rather a layering, of biology and environment. After a late night out for Halloween, a long run in the morning, and the scent of pad thai on Newbury Street this afternoon, I came home craving brown rice in peanut sauce.
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Growing up, one of my first unsupervised “T” rides was to Coolidge Corner, the sunny, bustling little center of Brookline, an urban suburb of Boston — a much-anticipated trek to Steve’s Ice Cream and “the sock store,” (both of which are now closed to the best of my knowledge). The sock store led to some questionable punky bruster inspired fashion choices, but Steve’s enlightened me with my first and only taste of incredible chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.
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