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I wrote the other day that I’m impatient for the weather to catch up to my summer mentality.  I mentioned that I’m eating burgers and strawberry cake and such, in spite of the cold weather.  But maybe that’s not quite right.  Maybe I’m really eating those things to entice summer.  I, for one, cannot resist a good barbecue and maybe, just maybe, summer feels the same way.  So, I’m thinking this: let’s all have a barbecue, even if only here on this web site, and cross our fingers that summer, along with its sultry heat and golden light, will want to join our party.  I’ll bring beer, which should help.  Or even some fresh-squeezed lemonade?  I bet summer could use a cold one.

Aside from beer, the other essential ingredients for a barbecue include some sort of meatstuff, kissed with the smoke of the grill; a buffet of irresistible salads and sides, from baked beans to potato salad to buttered corn on the cob to vinegar-y cucumber slices to salted, thick-cut rounds of heirloom tomatoes (I could go on); a good place to sit down, lean back and maybe even kick off your shoes; and a dessert, preferably involving ice cream, to round out the night.

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Oh, Chicago.  Forgive me.  Just one post ago, I doubted you.  I questioned why I put up with your snow, your rain, your biting wind.  And, gently but surely, you showed me.  You showed me that the sky that hangs over this skyscrapered city is not always low and surly and gray—that, instead, it can spread bright and high, like a brilliant blue canopy.   You reminded me that the wind, once whipping, can mellow, becoming a gentle, warm breeze.   After months of buttoning up, you got me to take off my coat.  You let me eat dinner al fresco, wriggling my sandaled toes beneath the table.  And you did all this in the span of one spring Friday by delivering sunshine and eighty degrees.  Well played, Chicago.

You know what this means, though, right?  I’m going to want more.  I’m greedy that way.

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If I had to reduce Easter to only one image, it would be a tiny pair of mary janes, as white as milk and made of patent leather.  More than the colored eggs and baskets brimming with candy, I looked forward every year to being able to wear those pristinely white shoes.  They squeaked a bit with each step and they scuffed at the slightest sneeze, but I loved them.  They were usually worn over a pair of opaque white tights and they were the perfect complement to a pastel-colored, full-skirted dress.  Some years, I would round out the ensemble with a bonnet (oh, yes I did) or a pocket book, but really, it was all about the shoes.

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Between the constant onslaught of depressing news (economy, I’m looking at you), a long work week and The Return of Winter 2009 (happens every year; why am I still stunned?), I am so ready for the weekend.  I can almost taste it: mindlessness, lazing, puttering, strolling—all the luxuries that the work week dispenses with.  And there’s only a mere Friday (lovely in its own right) standing between me and this weekendly luxury!  It’s enough to make a girl giddy.

I’m extra excited for this weekend because we spent last weekend in Boston (photos here).  It was a great trip—unexpectedly glorious weather, an excellent tour guide (Kevin’s sister, who we were visiting), wonderful co-tourists (Kevin’s parents) and a belly constantly full of delicious food—but it left me exhausted.  So, I’m looking forward to more of a hunker-down kind of weekend this time around.

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I hope I don’t sound too scroogey or anti-cupid here, but I’m not all that big on Valentine’s Day.  Roses aren’t really my thing and I like to know exactly what type of filling will ooze out of a piece of chocolate if I bite into it.  It’s also a day when restaurants are often at the most expensive (and not at their best quality) and emotions (trumped up by Hallmark et al) can be at their shakiest.   Really, why do we go through this rigamarole year in and year out?

Rant aside, I do think Valentine’s Day is a perfect chance to cook a lavish meal, complete with a bottle of fizzing champagne.  But that doesn’t make Valentine’s Day all that unique in my book.  I find plenty of excuses to cook lavish meals (and, ahem, drink champagne): good news at work, birthdays, anniversaries, completed bar exams.  You name it.  And Valentine’s Day, I suppose, is just as good a reason as any of these others.

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I have to say, I’ve been enjoying the recent football hiatus in my (Kevin’s) life.   Weekends are so productive!  The TV barely flickers to life for an entire Sunday afternoon (let alone Monday night, Thursday night and and and)!  And the Five-Five-Five-Dollar-Foot-Long jingle is finally out of my head (until now, whoops)!  But it’s come to my attention that there’s some football game this Sunday.  I believe they’re calling it the Super Bowl.

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You were all so nice to me about this new menu idea.  I’m glad you’re as excited about it as I am.  For the second menu, I gravitated toward breakfast, probably because I love it so much.  I’d go as far as to say it’s in my top three favorite meals of the day.  (Ba-dum-DUM.)  Pulling together this menu has got me thinking about my ideal morning.

There are the weekday mornings that start at a mind-numbing hour and involve tearing myself out of bed and prying my eyelids open.  But lately, they also involve a scoop of yogurt, topped with grapefruit segments and a walnut-and-dried cherry-laced granola—and that’s nothing to sniff at.  There’s aslo a delicious comfort to the routine and a stillness to the dark quiet of our building, our street, our neighborhood, our city at that hour.

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Every time I’ve wanted to complain about the weather this week (”I can’t feel my toes!”; “Let’s move to southern California or better yet Maui!”; “When’s our next vacation?”; “Is the sun still yellow, I wonder, because I don’t even remember”; “Why, Chicago, WHY?”), I visit weather.com and type in my grandparents’ zip code, which has frequently elicited an air temperature well below zero and a truly horrific “feels like” temperature (which, I’m convinced, is just a cruel feature and weather.com should be ashamed of itself for even thinking of it).  If my grandparents can handle this Alberta Clipper, so can I.

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Whoops! A milestone came and went this week and I didn’t stop to notice. Wednesday’s panzanella was my 200th post! I’m the sentimental type who likes to use opportunities like this for a little reflection. Indulge me? It is a holiday (Happy 4th!), after all. First, some photos of the recipes I’m proudest to have conquered during the last 100 posts: whole wheat pita (sooo cool; you must try it); jam (so easy; who knew?); profiteroles (to finish off a dinner party for 15; yes, you read right: 15); and bagels (again: sooo cool; you must try it):

Okay, enough about me. On to you and this three-day weekend we’ve all just embarked on. I’m sure many of you already have menus planned for the holiday, but for those of you who don’t, let’s play a little choose your own adventure. It works like this: choose one option from each of the next three sets of photos (mains; sides; sweets), all pulled from the archives of the last 100 posts, and you’ve got yourself a BBQ. BYO fireworks.

First, the main dishes, all carnivorous (for the vegetarians, skip down a category!)—sandwiches (steak & blue cheese; brisket & cheddar; turkey meatball; grilled chicken); fun with beer (beer can chicken; beer boiled chicken brats); and grill love (grilled pizza; bourbon-glazed ribs):

(Click “more” for the rest of the categories.)

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The quiche. Oh, the quiche. It’s not a coincidence that I’ve pushed the quiche post to the very last of the brunch posts that have occupied The Kitchen Sink this week. In a way, it’s saving the best for last, because this is probably one of the most decadently delicious things I’ve ever made. But it was also one disaster after another and I guess I haven’t exactly been impatient to revisit them. But, lest you think the brunch was all sweets (see Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s posts), I wanted to give you a glimpse into the savory. And, of course, the debacles along the way.

It all started with a very, very bad decision. The original choice to make a quiche was innocent enough. But as the brunch’s numbers swelled to 12, I realized one regulation sized quiche wouldn’t do. Instead of making two quiches, I thought it would be easier (ha! ha! ha!) to make one super-sized quiche. I would make a deep-dish shell and would fill it to the brim with custard. Considering several of the brunch guests were only in Chicago for a short visit, I thought it was very Chicago-style of me.

(Click “more” for the rest of the story, more photos and the recipe.)

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