I just want to prove to you that I do eat more than pasta...
The other night I was certain there was a cryo-sealed bag of whitefish...probably halibut, in my fridge. Certain. I have been reading Around My French Table on the train (yes, I'm lugging an enormous, hardcover cookbok with me. Don't judge! You're reading this blog)
I wanted do something with herbs, with leeks and carrots. I wanted to know just what a radish tastes like when you roast it. I was going for it!
...Until I got home and realized that I had actually stowed not white fish, but tuna in the fridge. No worries, thought I, I'll just do it anyway, how bad can it be...?
And you know what? It wasn’t! Roasted carrots, radishes, and leeks nestled under a piece of well-seasoned fish. Wrapped in parchment and left in the oven while you do more important things, like stirring the risotto, or dancing with the man, who was at that moment wandering through the kitchen singing to the cat. You make a little caper dressing, which you won't even put on the table, for fear of the vicious scorn that capers garner from that same man who sings to a cat (he feels similarly about chard)
It was a lovely dinner. It’s always nice when something starts as a mistake and a whim and ends up in the small victory that is a well prepared meal with the one you love.
The other night I was certain there was a cryo-sealed bag of whitefish...probably halibut, in my fridge. Certain. I have been reading Around My French Table on the train (yes, I'm lugging an enormous, hardcover cookbok with me. Don't judge! You're reading this blog)
I wanted do something with herbs, with leeks and carrots. I wanted to know just what a radish tastes like when you roast it. I was going for it!
...Until I got home and realized that I had actually stowed not white fish, but tuna in the fridge. No worries, thought I, I'll just do it anyway, how bad can it be...?
And you know what? It wasn’t! Roasted carrots, radishes, and leeks nestled under a piece of well-seasoned fish. Wrapped in parchment and left in the oven while you do more important things, like stirring the risotto, or dancing with the man, who was at that moment wandering through the kitchen singing to the cat. You make a little caper dressing, which you won't even put on the table, for fear of the vicious scorn that capers garner from that same man who sings to a cat (he feels similarly about chard)
It was a lovely dinner. It’s always nice when something starts as a mistake and a whim and ends up in the small victory that is a well prepared meal with the one you love.
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