Eastside Road, April 30, 2010—
WHEN I WAS A kid — I know, too much nostalgia here lately — hominy was a fairly frequent dinner guest. Dad was from Arizona, born in Oklahoma, a bit of a southerner. But the hominy always came in a can. I still like it, and as I grow older I like it more: strong are the ties to our childhoods.
Tonight's hominy surprised me. Why isn't it mushy, I asked, canned hominy is always mushy. It doesn't have to be, she sweetly reasoned. She'd sliced up some good chorizo from The Spanish Table into the skillet; it was very tasty. We'll have dinner in Madrid on Tuesday; maybe that's what she was thinking of.
Nero d'Avola (we'll be in Avola before long, too — watch this space!)