Emily Brochin

I spent the last week visiting family and friends in the oven known as south Florida. It was actually better than expected and I had one spectacular meal at a little Cuban seafood joint known as Garcia’s, located on the Miami River. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, I highly recommend the conch fritters, fish ceviche, shrimp creole, yellow rice, and sweet plantains. However, I must admit I was stressing about the trip the week before leaving. After all, I associate Florida with white loafers, bad drivers, and fake boobs. So before I boarded the plane, I engaged in some retail therapy at the Italian Market. It’s been awhile–I used to live in South Philly and I always associate 9th Street with near fatal bicycle crashes while avoiding the flaming oil drums vendors set afire in the winter.

I went to Fante’s and admired their stacks of Le Creuset (which I will likely never afford but love to ogle) while picking up a thermometer, whisk, citrus reamer, hanging fruit basket, and kabob skewers. Not terribly exciting, but necessary. I had to drag myself away before I did some serious damage and returned home with a much-coveted grill pan, slow cooker, and crepe pan. There’s something about a well-stocked kitchen that naively makes me believe that some day my cooking won’t taste like re-hydrated filth.

On my way home, I noticed a painting of Johnny Depp gracing the outside of the Spice Corner, which really just increases my respect for that establishment all the more.