I'm pretty sure I should call in sick today. You know, to myself. I do have a sore throat. And for days, no matter how much I sleep I'm still tired. Or I think I'm tired. It's possible I'm confusing tiredness and laziness.
Should we buy a house? I walked by
this one yesterday while out with C. Arthur Miller. The yard was full of what I think a realtor would call "mature plantings."
I read that yesterday's hard frost may have seriously damaged not only this summer's strawberry and blueberry crops, but next fall's apples, as well. This changes everything, obviously.
The yachtsman won't live in a red state, which rules out the South. He also won't live on the West Coast because he doesn't want to be "three hours behind." This rules out Portland, Oregon, where I've never been, but an online personality-test-type thing I took awhile ago determined I should live there.
The lure of the couch is
very strong right now. The couch, a pot of tea, last night's episode of
Lost.
On Saturday we went to the first farmers market of the summer. It was freezing cold and raining, and the next day it snowed. There were basically three things for sale: greens, asparagus, and radishes. Also, baked goods and pottery.
Looking at these charts of
vegetables and
fruits that are in season and being sold at the beautiful farmers market at the Ferry building in San Francisco is not a good idea. And it's not fair, either. It's like comparing apples to oranges. Or, in this case, radishes to cherries.
If we lived in California I'd be eating cherries right now. Actually, if we lived in California I'd still be in bed. Fer shur. However, if we lived in California, Arnold Schwarzenegger would be my governor, which is unacceptable. And if we lived in San Francisco, specifically, I would be forced by law to compost.
So for now, radishes.
As you may recall, last spring I was obsessed with a little shizzle I like to call
radish toast, so when I saw this recipe for
Seared Radish Crostini, I had to give it a try. Crostini is just a fancy word for toast, after all. And this is basically a fancier, fattier, deliciouser version of last year's radish toast.
The key is the bagna cauda. Did I impress you with that term? In my mind I call it crack sauce: melted butter, olive oil, lots of garlic, anchovies, parsley. So. Good. Spread the bagna cauda on crostini and top with seared radishes, and you have a little shizzle I like to call fancy radish toast with crack sauce.
Fancy Radish Toast With Crack Sauce
from the New York Times
1 bunch radishes
9 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
½ teaspoon kosher salt
¼ teaspoon pepper
4 tablespoons butter
8 anchovy fillets, finely chopped
[If you don't like anchovies you could leave them out, but how about trying it first with just one or two?]4 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
Pinch red pepper flakes
8 thin slices crusty bread, toasted
4 teaspoons chopped parsley
1. Remove leaves and stems from radishes; trim the tails. Cut larger radishes lengthwise into sixths and smaller radishes lengthwise into quarters.
2. Place a large skillet over medium-high heat until very hot. Add 1 tablespoon oil, radishes in a single layer (do not crowd), and salt and pepper. Cook radishes, without moving them, until they are lightly colored on undersides, about 3 minutes. Shake pan and continue cooking until tender, about 3 more minutes.
3. In a small skillet over medium heat, melt butter. Stir in anchovies, garlic, red pepper, and remaining oil.
[I wasn’t paying attention and also stirred in the parsley, which I think I’ll do next time, too.] Reduce heat and simmer about 4 minutes.
4. Brush each slice of toast with sauce and top with several radish wedges. Spoon additional sauce on top, sprinkle with parsley and serve.
[I made one up for the photo, but my stepmom had the idea to serve these “deconstructed”—the three separate parts (toasted bread, bagna cauda, radishes) on a platter so everyone could make their own.]
The yachtsman made his famous seitan vindaloo, his famous biscuits. He, famously, took naps on the couch with the dog curled up in the crook of his bent legs. In my dream it was so beautiful I vowed never again to complain about winter.
