go fig yourself

This week, I was commiserating with a friend on the (few) trials of being away from home (eew, I just referred to Cincinnati as "home". That makes me cringe. "Place where I have a lease and 80% of my shoes", perhaps?), and the things we look forward to upon our return.
Although sleeping in an actual bed will be very lovely, I think I really miss my kitchen toys the most. For example, when a coworkers brings in the garden bounty of their tomato patch and I begin to salivate at the promise of gazpacho for dinner, I have to let go of my hopes and remind myself that I do not currently have access to a blender. Yes, of course the myriad Latin American restaurants in my current neighborhood would be more than happy to provide me with a cup of gazpacho, but I want the satisfaction of opening my fridge to find a giant pitcher of gazpacho waiting there for me.

I also miss my pastry toys, as I bought four pints of lovely, drippy mission figs this week, and foolishly googled "fig tart" in order to taunt myself with recipes I cannot make.

I suppose I'll just have to settle for wrapping the figs in prosciutto or layering them with greek yogurt. Oh, what a sacrifice.

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