Wednesday, November 3, 2010

The moon will be bread

For a variety of reasons, I haven't cooked for a few days (aside from tasty lunches of oatmeal with honey and pumpkin pie spice); as a result, I eschewed going to the medical school Diwali celebration with the rest of my white, Jewish classmates and instead delved into my most recent batch of delivery produce. The results were more than a little pleasant.

I didn't get much sleep last night, and as a result, I spent a portion of today's crepuscularity picking a new bread recipe to honor my re-self-initiation into daily cooking. It's one of those that pretends very hard it's proper French bread but doesn't require you to spend two days coddling it (plus the time and flour spent to feed your starter). There's no picture of the whole loaf because I always underestimate oven spring, and then the bread isn't long and thin like a proper baguette, but curved and thickened invariably only at one end and disturbingly phallic, too disturbingly for the general viewership.

Enter butternut squash topped with Parmesan, broiled pears, and roasted squash seeds tossed with marjoram for a little bit of texture. I paired the quasi-baguette and a warm kale pesto to go with it. I was unsure about the juxtaposition of kale and pears, particularly considering that one broils unripe pears; the vegetal qualities of the kale may or may not have amplified the vegetal qualities of unripe fruit. There were no problems at all. I shall cast modesty to the winds and say that the whole spread was great. In other, even more effusive news, kale pesto is delicious (and heavy on the garlic, which is how I roll). Really, really delicious.

And last but not least, a poem by one of my favorite authors (who also lent me the title of this post) that I read for the first time today:

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