I am still trying to make sense out of this past day’s events.
One minute I’m laughing my head off (Fatcyclist weblog ) the next I’m as sad as I’ve ever been on a winter’s day.
NO, it’s not the presidential primaries.
Forse c’e l’impronta d’un piedone.
When in doubt, work it out.
Too fried to ride, best take arms against a sea of accumulating troubles.
Haul out the spotty eggplant I’ve been avoiding.
God! The thing looks even sadder than me. It had been magnificent, shiny purple, about a pound and a half…
Now it’s corrupted by perfectly circular brown age spots, and shockingly dusty black mold…like toner from a printer cartridge. But once cut away, the flesh is firm, white and hmmm this is nowhere near as bad as I thought.
Length of time in basket since I put it there: 2 weeks. Gotta be a record (vintage vegetable cuisine).
My smile is returning.
Saute a bunch of corn tortillas–the local fancy grocer was throwing about 30 pounds away–way more than I could ever use. But I still took five massive packages cuz worms love corn…
Chop that perfect yellow onion the size of a softball . I may as well have one really perfect ingredient–even though I’d aimed to do what race champion Chloe Forsman occasionally does: make a single dish out of everything that’s about to go bad.
Roast a red pepper straight on flame. I swear I think I hear it whimper.
The air becomes deliciously pungent. What was I so bummed about, again?
Chop parsely, throw into onions, drown with chicken stock, sour cream, regular cream, four beaten eggs and some The Hell With Me cheese (Halloumi). Chop zuke, chop tomatoes, and add that last jar of fine tomato sauce from September’s fifty pound trove (with its blast of chipotle pepper for fiery top note).
Layer, layer, layer.
Shove in hot oven, an irritable witch who can’t even remember her grudge.
When fingers of tortilla pie aroma beckon from ten paces (usually just under an hour), it’s cooked.
And whatever it was I was torturing myself about is done, too.
What remains: a huge tray of amazingly delicious enchilada-ish (no spices other than those in the chipotle sauce i’d canned from orphan heirloom tomatoes), guaranteed to feed me for a week.
Might churn out a couple of book chapters fueled with it!