Pickled Rhubarb and a Couscous Salad

-It was too pretty to Instagram since I had light and wasn't cooking in the middle of the night.-

We seem to a be a nation that has no problem pickling anything. We pickle eggs and that seems strange and terrifying until you try one. We pickle asparagus knowing full well it will make your pee even worse that eating it unpickled. String beans which are then renamed to dilly beans. Cauliflower; always with curry. And recently I have discovered pickled cherries, which may very well revolutionize the Manhattan and the martini.

Pickling and preserving books are now all the rage. It seems there's always a new one every few months purporting to be the end-all, be-all cookery book for packing your pickles.

However, this vinegar-fueld enthusiasm seems to have looked over humble rhubarb. Lovingly discarded like a stuffed animal still on your adult bed out of filial duty and not because you sleep with it, rhubarb is and forever will be in most minds the "pie plant".

No Creativity Today: (A Link to) Pickled Okra

-Pickles and Instagram. Quality blogging here at Vanilla Garlic.-

This week I looked in my fridge and realized I just didn't care about being creative this week with my food. I was tired and exhausted. I had hosted a potluck days earlier that had been smashing and where I had cleverly whipped up a rather smashing sweet potato and blue cheese galette using only detritus strewn about the pantry that had been long since forgotten. I am currently in the middle of my last week at my job, and as a celebration I busted out - sweet Jesus - cupcakes all because none of them had had them before and I had worked in a cupcake shop once. They had never had them so why not now?

(Also, I am lying. I freaking bought the cupcakes from the bakery I used to work at. Happy?)

Add that to trying to cook a decent meal every night and I realized - have you ever experienced this? - I just didn't care about whatever food I made. Or, I did. But I my brain was frazzled. An entire year developing recipes for book, blog, and any other number of venues and sometimes you just hit a wall. The left side of your brain just gives you the finger and retreats to the corner with a glass of scotch.

"Eff this noise." Or so says my brain.