edie's bathrobe

I started Edie’s Bathrobe in March 2012 as a way of remembering my most moving meals. Since then, it’s become my time capsule and my outlet. 

First things first: I was raised in the sunny stretches of Sarasota, Florida, but I am getting schooled in the icy tundra of Boston, Massachusetts. Here’s the thing about me. I’m an eater—a big one. I’m addicted to one pot wonders, screwtop wine, eggs over easy (and I mean easy), food blogs so good they make you squirm in your seat, homemade guac, British pub grub (I like a good steak and ale pie – so shoot me), kitschy kitchen products, baked brie, Thai street food—and just about everything in between.

I’m also a new member of this job market I’ve heard so much about. Don’t be shy if you like what you see.

Oh, and the name? It’s an ode to my grandma, Edith. You’ll read more about her below.

Contact Me: ediesbathrobe@gmail.com
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And about my grandma, Edie. 

My grandma’s food is the first food I remember eating. 

Cornflake chicken. Matzah ball soup. Her 1905 salad. Chocolate chip cake. “Fajitas.”

It was nothing gourmet. Nothing over the top. It got a family of two working parents, three wee kids and two loving grandparents to the dinner table each night, where scouting reports were announced and glasses of 2% milk were filled to the brim. 

From her I learned to put the fork to my mouth. And for an eater like me, that’s the biggest blessing of all. It was never really a romantic story, and they were never really romantic meals, but 

Oh screw it.

The meals weren’t romantic at all. Spaghetti and ketchup. “Creamy chicken” with that gelatinous creamofmushroom business slathered on top. Onion-and-pastrami laced matzah brei with an odor as strong as my grandma’s love for squealing matches with my grandpa. And a stuffed cabbage recipe so adored by my grandpa that it could rekindle their frenetic 50+ year bond. He called her “babe,” and his babe could make damn good stuffed cabbage. 

All oddities aside (Heinz and spaghetti?!), her food was the first I had slide into my belly, the first food that I can remember unpacking, challenging and relishing. Standing over the temperamental gas stove in her electric pink + orange bathrobe, she made family dinner—the crux of my eating experience—happen. She made me crave food of all shapes, colors and absurd combinations for the first time. 

Her chocolate chip cake was the first confection that I ever snuck downstairs to shovel into my mouth at midnight. Memories of her matzah ball soup leave me despairing on holidays, when friends’ bubbies can do nothing to match her’s. My grandma’s were salty and dense, like baseballs—never dainty and light. Oh, and her fajitas. Frying chicken in a wok with a few bell peppers has never been deemed true Mexican, but it was her Mexican. It was my favorite meal of the week.

Eventually, the role of house chef was passed onto my dad. As my grandma, wrinkled but sassy as ever, exited the kitchen and my dad entered, a funny thing happened. My parents fostered my love for food. We analyzed flavors at the dinner table and created an environment where good food was a nightly ritual.

Eventually, when I picked up the pen, I became identified by the food in my belly. I learned that eating was not something that I simply did, but was an inextricable aspect of who I am. 

Now, at twenty-one years of age, eating has become an infatuation, a carefully executed breed of gluttony. This blog is compilation of that voracity and an effort to remember my best meals.