When this blog was young, before I bought myself a respectable camera, I took pictures with a teensy point and shoot, whose viewfinder is so small it looks like a postage stamp. I want to take it to Goodwill, but the camera is covered in sticky crumbs and has butter in all of its metallic creases, so I’ve kept it. I moved on to a fancier point and shoot for a while there–one with a ‘food’ setting–but then I started reading other food blogs and realized that my photos were an absolute embarrassment. They’re still here because I am sentimental and want my great, great grandchildren to have access to all accounts of my cookery, just in case they’re curious about what a dead relative was like. Honestly, though, I blush at the idea of anyone looking at food pictures I took before May, 2009. This will probably be funny to read in the year 2109, so laugh it up little ones, if you’re out there.

But to those of you who read other incredible blogs, like 101 Cookbooks, Orangette, or Smitten Kitchen, please don’t judge me for my bizarre recipe choices. After all, I’m only doing my best to keep up with the caliber of food photography out there–and to do so, I must shoot by day. I’ve tried to hard to make more elegant lunches, but frankly, people don’t typically come over for lunch. Cooking up a grand meal for 1 in the middle of the day is a sad idea indeed. I’d rather throw cold leftovers onto a bed of lettuce and eat in a much less depressing fashion. This is why full-out, gorgeous pieces of meat and fish are rare appearances here at Bread & Courage. I’d even venture to say that whatever recipes do involve warm proteins are remnants of my point and shoot days, before I realized that big, white flash patches are not all that appetizing.

In that respect, I guess, this post isn’t really a departure from what I’ve been up to. After all, Ceviche is cold–and as old as a leftover. But it is at least a leftover worth writing about, since its extended time in the refrigerator is what makes the dish so worthwhile. I had never made Ceviche before this week, but I will never be intimidated again.  The possibility of eating (or feeding) raw fish is pretty frightening, and I’ve always wondered if I’d botch the marinating process or buy bum fish. (Although I suppose if I fully believed that, I would stop eating at dive-y sushi joints.) But really, my own hand in it is what scares me most. It still does, I’ll have you know, but not because of the cooking process.

Ceviche takes care of itself, and is refreshingly uncomplicated–especially if you use a fork or wear rubber gloves. The only qualm I have (which is entirely preventable!) is that Ceviche can make you smell–strongly–like a fishmonger. You’ll need at least 8 limes for this recipe, and I suggest buying a couple of lemons, too, so that you can vigorously scrub your fingertips after you’ve chopped and mixed the fish. When you serve it later, please have hearty chips or forks alongside so that your guests won’t go home cursing your recipe. And DO NOT send it with your husband as a ’snack’ at the office. These warnings should by no means be a turn off: Ceviche is too delicious to shy away from either for its raw-ness or for its scent. Just marinate it for a solid 8-12 hours (I let mine sit a full day)… and be sure it’s not served as finger food.

I like Ceviche full of chopped herbs and vegetables, although you can leave out the extras and serve it as plain as you like. I also used a 1:1 ratio of scallops and shrimp, although comparably-sized pieces of white fish or calamari are also delicious.*  Either way, be sure that the fish is swimming in juice–if any pieces are exposed, squeeze more lime, or shake the bowl every few hours to ensure that all of the fish gets ‘cooked.’

Shrimp and Scallop Ceviche

Serves 2-3 as a main course

1/2 lb shrimp, peeled, deveined, chopped

1/2 lb scallops, cleaned and chopped

2 stalks celery, diced

1/4 c cilantro, finely chopped

1/4 c parsley, finely chopped

1/2 yellow bell pepper, diced

1 c  cherry tomatoes, cut in half or quarters

2 green onions, diced

1/2 Serano pepper, finely diced (about 1 T)

1/2 cup lime juice (about 8-10 limes)

salt and pepper

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Squeeze limes to render 1/2 c lime juice.

Place fish in a bowl with a lid, large enough to accommodate all of the other ingredients.

Pour lime juice over fish and let sit 8-12 hours at a minimum, although preferably longer.

1 hour before serving, drain half of the lime juice and add chopped vegetables and herbs.

Season to taste just before serving.

*It goes without saying that if you decide to add more fish to the recipe, you’ll need to add enough lime to keep the ratio of lime juice to fish the same.

Last Friday was especially perfect for this type of stay-at-home date, as there was record rainfall accompanied by severe thunder claps and lightening white-outs. High levels of risk were involved in braving the commute and so, naturally, there was considerable excitement. The house was our ultimate destination: we were like heroes getting home.

But once we got home, there was a penetrating lull. The world of roads and traffic lights and office printers ceased to exist, and it was just the two of us, perched in our little gray house, hoping we wouldn’t be washed away. Before Christopher got home, I listened to Steve Inskeep drone the day’s final news while doing some mise en place, when all of a sudden—MEEEDDIIIIDIIIDUUUMMMDUMP. The high-pitched storm warning reminded me that things were serious outside, but that I was safe at my counter top, chopping herbs.

Christopher called shortly thereafter, to tell me about a puddle on Richmond Avenue that went up to the doors of his truck. I waited for him to get home while Lupe tried to maintain close contact to both of my calves as I hobbled through the kitchen gathering ingredients for our salad. She’s great at scooting between the ankles and staying there, despite the risks it poses to those of us heating skillets and opening bottles of wine. Christopher’s arrival was more celebratory than usual, and rivers of wine seemed to flow through the entire night. I wish it would rain like that more often.

Generally, on these Fridays, I handle the plant parts, and Christopher deals with the animals. Last week, he used a grill pan to cook up some trout he’d blackened with a generous coating of curries, peppers and other pungent dusts. Meanwhile, I sliced a few tomatoes (yellow, orange, red) into discs about the size of a silky mozzarella ball, alternating the two between slices of prosciutto and basil. I wanted more herbs, but neither Christopher nor I could brave the moat that had developed between our back stoop and our garden bed.

I wanted more herbs for my salad, too, and indeed the original recipe called for parsley and mint, both of which I had to do without. It would have frustrated me—especially since maneuvering the refrigerator door with a dog between your feet can be quite maddening—except that such extraordinary weather was inspiring some girlish nerves… would the power go out?… would we have to eat our dinner to a dim flame?… I promptly forgot about the mint. As it turns out, our lights stayed on, which was a good thing, because my feet were eager to cut the Sisal.

The salad you see now is a reproduction: I had some leftover peas, pistachios and a bit of Pecorino, and I made this again the very next day—when the sun came out and the birds took baths in sidewalk puddles.  It was just as delicious under clear skies.

Pea, Pecorino and Pistachio Salad

Adapted from Food and Wine

Serves 4-6

1 T freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 T honey
1 large egg yolk
3 T cup extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground pepper
5 ounces baby arugula
1 large head frisée, chopped
1 tablespoon chopped mint
1 tablespoon chopped flat-leaf parsley
1 cup frozen baby peas, thawed
½ cup pistachios, roasted in a skillet and salted (or pre-roasted)
1 cup shaved Pecorino Romano cheese (3 ounces)
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In the bottom of your salad bowl, whisk lemon juice, honey and egg yolk.
Drizzle in olive oil until emulsified, adding more if you prefer an oilier dressing.
Season with salt and pepper and place arugula, frisée and herbs over the dressing—do not coat.
In the meantime, prepare your other ingredients.
Just before serving, toss the leaves then gently add remaining ingredients.
(You can toss to incorporate, although I preferred to serve mine with the nuts and cheese on top.)

But what about the potato? Until Dr. Atkins, everybody loved the potato. It’s just as pallid as cauliflower, just clothed a little bit. Radishes are also white, and people love them grated beside raw fish or slashed into a slaw. And the turnip? Well… that’s not exactly helping my argument. All I’m saying is that the plain color of cauliflower should not be a deterrent. Unless, of course, it should be.

In all honesty, I’m not sure that cauliflower should be entirely pale. I have had my fair share of Styrofoam tasting cauliflower, that’s for sure. But that was back when I shopped at Kroger (before I became a snob…) and ate produce that might have been waiting for me for months, turning whiter and whiter. I’m not so elite, really. I still buy things at Kroger… things like baking soda and crackers and tonic water. But when it comes to anything that truly needs to be fresh to taste good, I avoid most places with the option for self-checkout.

This cauliflower is the perfect example. If you’ve never had just-picked cauliflower, consider yourself duped. This is a social justice issue, folks: people deserve fresh fruits and vegetables. Not just people living in food desserts, I mean everyone. And most people aren’t getting it. Even people who shop at Whole Foods.

Of course this is a stale argument, but I’m afraid it remains lost on many. If you want to know how a certain food really tastes, you’ve got to get it as close to the source as possible. If you are not shopping at a farmer’s market or growing your own food, you are missing out on what food really tastes like. Furthermore, you’re missing out on what it can possibly look like. Look at this cauliflower!

Look again!

It’s extraordinary—hints of green, purple, pink. It’s no ashen off-white. It’s alive with flavor. It’s sweet, subtle. Perfect for roasting with strong, sweet pine nuts and fresh, brilliant parsley leaves. We pulled at least ten heads of cauliflower out of the school garden before Spring break. I was a little intimidated of the three I was given, but as soon as I snapped off a floret, my fear abated. Now I wish I had taken five heads.

Roasting was my favorite way to eat these, of course. The edges got crisp and savory, with just a bit of olive oil and salt. I had more than I could eat in a single sitting, but the roasted florets perked up nicely in my toaster oven whenever I wanted a serving. If you’re not a cauliflower person, get out of the grocery store. Unless, of course, you’re busy buying olive oil and salt.

Golden Roasted Cauliflower

Serves 2

1 head of cauliflower

2 T olive oil, plus more for serving

1/4 c chopped parsley

1/4 c pine nuts

Salt

Parmesan cheese, for serving, if you wish

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Heat oven to 400 (you can add cauliflower before oven reaches desired temperature.

Break florets off cauliflower stem into bite-sized pieces.

In a medium bowl, toss cauliflower with 2 T olive oil and a generous pinch of salt.

Spread floretes evenly on a baking sheet, with room between each (to prevent steaming).

Roast 12 minutes then turn for even cooking.

Roast an additional 10-15 minutes, or until cauliflower becomes soft in the center and crisp on the edges.

In the meantime, heat a skillet with pine nuts and parsley until nuts turn slightly brown. Remove from heat and set aside.

Remove roasted cauliflower and toss with nuts and parsley.

Drizzle with additional olive oil before serving, add Parmesan if desired, and salt to taste.

But the garden at the school where I teach has changed all of that. And it’s not just parsley that is growing like delicious kudzu: it’s basil, dill, cilantro, mint and rosemary. I am embarrassed to admit to my former ignorance here, but herbs are not limited to being tiny sprouts—they can be vegetation at its most expansive.

This herbal bounty is something I have never enjoyed. In fact, I’ve always sort of detested fresh herbs, if only because a bunch can cost upwards of $5 to enhance a single dish before slipping into the darkest corner of my crisper, only to be found black and mushy months later. I wonder how many dollars have rotted in my refrigerator in the form of un-tapped flavor. Those were the herbs that I cursed.

What I really should have regretted was my dependence on the grocery store. But thanks be to the parsley shrub, I have been set free. Herbs growing in this quantity never go bad because they are always content: sucking water, swaying in the breeze, happily rooted and alive. Now that I have them, I never cook without them. I even keep bunches on my dashboard to keep the car smelling good. Try that with an overpriced basil leaf.

I feel wealthy, really. Sort of spoiled. But I have vastly changed my view of planting: I’ll never have a garden without rows of my favorites: basil, parsley, oregano, thyme and dill. I will plant them like lettuce. I realize that someday I may not be lucky enough to have herbs growing so abundantly in March, in which case, I’ll be sure to build an extra bed so that my summer crop can be dried and hoarded through a more traditional winter.

So what do I do with so many herbs to spare? Aside from making everything with meunière sauce, I like to make dips. Pesto is an obvious choice, but some parsley butter can be just as satisfying—especially when spread on a homegrown radish. I was recently inspired by Melissa Clark’s Greek Goddess dip, a spin off the more typical Green Goddess dip. She made it in anticipation of the Super bowl, which was easily accommodated by my Texas garden. That said, if I ever live on the east coast again, I won’t be making this much before June.

If you can’t wait for the season, or simply don’t have the requisite herbs growing nearby, make enough of this dip to use up whatever fresh herbs you buy: it’s really extraordinary stuff and  will practically guarantee that those extra basil leaves don’t rot forgotten.

Herb Dip with Feta and Greek Yogurt

Adapted from Melissa Clark, Serves 6-8

½ cup packed fresh dill
½ cup packed fresh mint
½ cup packed fresh parsley
½ cup packed fresh basil
2 garlic cloves, chopped
2 scallions, white and green parts, sliced
1 ½ tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ cup crumbled feta cheese
½ cup Greek yogurt (preferably 2%)
1/4 c cream cheese, optional
Salt and pepper to taste

Raw chopped vegetables (radishes!) or pita chips, for serving.

Place herbs, garlic, scallions, lemon juice and a pinch of salt in a food processor, pulsing until finely chopped.

With food processor on low, drizzle in olive oil until blended. Add feta and pulse until smooth. Add cream cheese (if using), and pulse until smooth. Finally, pulse in yogurt. Add salt, pepper and lemon juice according to your taste.

Serve dip cold with vegetables or pita chips. This dip can be stored in the refrigerator for a few days—it also goes well on a toasted onion bagel for lunch.

But there is a problem with strict meatlessness when you live with a carnivore. And an even greater problem when you live with a carnivore in Texas and all of his friends are also carnivores. And the problem intensifies when you like his friends…and people, generally. Because not a lot of great dinner parties I’ve been to have featured a meatless dish.

Michael Pollen first put my dilemma (as it were) into focus: civilization was built around the fire. Roasting meat, not unlike the way it’s done at dinner parties, is the key to coming together. This is especially true of dinner parties in Texas. No one would come over to my house if I offered them quinoia pilaf. Except, maybe, my yoga teacher. So, I succumb. Not because my body wants to fill itself with flesh, but because my soul wants to be connected. More often than not, ‘breaking bread’ comes with a side of some communal butchered thing. And people are more important to me than anything–even a few hapless shrimp and the occasional pig.

So, the time is nigh for writing about this shrimp and sausage  soup. I’ve been doing a lot of twisting and bending lately, and if I don’t get this on the page soon, you will be even less likely to make it. Which would be a shame because it is delicious—and if you can find some well-treated pigs and happy, pink shrimp, all the better.

This meal is ideal for an omnivorous winter party—it just sings with flavor and spice. It is silky with occasional bursts of meaty chewiness. Delicious. And even though I’m not generally enticed by meat, there is something about pork in soup that really gets my belly rumbling. There’s no doubt that the best pots I’ve made have begun with a slab of pork salt, pancetta, bacon or, in this case, sausage.

This is the kind of meal I imagine would bring, not just individual nomads, but entire tribes of nomads, together. That is, if they had access to boar that wandered close to the Spanish coast. Its broth has just the right texture, consistency and richness to leave you feeling like you could roll away from the fire and fall asleep. Which is pretty close to what my group did the night we ate this. I dare say, vegetarians ought to make an exception for this dish. Dark winter days call for a bit of fleshy spice. And as they lift their bowls, they should say what I said to myself, “To civilization! Here, here.”

Spicy Shrimp and Chorizo Stew

Adapted from Food + Wine

Serves 6 as a main course

2 lbs medium shrimp, shelled and deveined—save shells
2 quarts chicken broth
8 oz Andouille sausage, chopped and removed from casing
1 large, sweet onion diced
1 large carrot, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
28 oz can crushed tomatoes
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour mixed with 2 tbsp of water
S & P
Parsley, for garnish

Simmer shrimp shells in chicken broth about 10 minutes. Strain the broth and discard the shells.

In a large soup pot, cook the sausage over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until browned.

With a slotted spoon, transfer the sausage to a separate plate.

Put the onion, carrot, garlic and paprika to the pot and cook over moderate heat until softened, about 10 minutes.

Add the crushed tomatoes and cook until the liquid has evaporated, about 15 minutes.

Return the sausage to the pot, add the shrimp broth and bring to a boil. Simmer over moderate heat for 25 minutes. (If you are doing this soup in advance—which I did—pause here and let the soup stand until you are almost ready to serve. Before following the next step, bring soup to a warm temperature.)

Stir the flour mixture, whisk it into the soup and boil for 2 minutes.

Season soup with salt and pepper.

Add the shrimp to the soup and cook just until pink and curled, about 2 minutes. Ladle the soup into bowls and top with parsley.

Before things get too quaint, I have to confess: sometimes my house makes me crazy. Lupe has a knack for finding our dirtiest clothes—mostly socks and some other unmentionables—and dragging them with her around the living room while we’re gone. Her habit is part retaliatory, part intoxication. I imagine the little dog shaking my socks in her jowls, inhaling the scent of my toes and cursing me for going away again.

She also rips up mail and leaves a confetti trail of bills from the mail slot, across the dining room and through the kitchen. The number of socks and papers she shreds is invariably proportional to the amount of time she is left at home without us. On the rare occasion that I can’t get back for a few extra hours, I hold my breath at the threshold and pray she hasn’t found the wedding photos.

Well, on Saturday we got distracted by Christmas shopping and pub-crawling and when we came back, the living room was riddled with hazmats. Nothing like a hole in my favorite woolen socks, tiny pieces of The Weekend Journal and shards of a recyclable plastic to make me adore coming home again. Especially when guests are set to arrive in less than 2 hours.

In my world, cleaning up is no small feat. Once it starts, it tends to go until the bitter end—I’m talking bags set aside for Goodwill; a closet arranged by hue and alphabetized bookshelves. I can’t let myself get to tidying too often. Instead I devise ruses to keep my mania at bay—in this case, it came in the form of a savory crostata.

Christopher and our dear friend Peter (who came all the way from New York to pick up Lupe’s pieces) helped clear the wreckage while I got to the kneading and freezing. I always forget how many times a cook has to cool pate brisee, but in the end it’s always worth the process. Plus the half an hour bouts when my dough ball rested in the fridge gave me perfect—and controlled—spurts at organizing before our guests arrived.

By the time the crostata was ready to bake, the house was positively shining. Candles were lit, the tree blinked its silvery lights, and champagne bubbles gave a serious lift to my spirits. But of all the fun we had, charades included, nothing made me happier than eating winter foods with my favorite folks—except of course, falling asleep with everyone on the couch with the hope of a snow cover in the morning… and leftover crostata topped with fried egg for breakfast.

Caramelized Onion and Goat Cheese Crostata

Serves 4 as a side dish

NOTE: This can be assembled ahead of time and baked off just before dinner.

Pate Brisee (see below)
2 tbsp butter
1 tbsp olive oil
3 tbsp balsamic vinegar
2 medium, white onions—or one large, sliced thin
1 c cherry tomatoes or ½ c sun-dried tomatoes packed in oil
½ c goat cheese at room temperature
¼ c shaved Pecorino or Parmesan
Sprig of parsley for garnish
1 egg, beaten
S & P to taste

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Melt butter in heavy bottomed skillet then add onions.

Cook on low heat, stirring regularly for about 30 minutes or until onions are tender and amber in color. Salt and taste towards the end. (If you prefer your onions very sweet, you can add a ¼ tsp brown sugar to help them along.)

In the meantime, put olive oil and balsamic vinegar in another heavy bottomed skillet over medium heat, adding tomatoes when warm.

Allow tomatoes to wilt and caramelize in the pan, stirring them occasionally for about fifteen minutes.  When they are fully deflated and the skins are peeling, turn off the heat.

(If you are using sundried tomatoes, simply warm them in a bit of vinegar.)

When tomatoes and onions are ready, remove pate brisee from refrigerator and roll out crostata until it is about 12” in diameter, lightly flouring the board and rolling pin. Don’t worry if it is not perfectly round—the edges will be folded to give it a ‘rustic’ look anyhow.

With the back of a spoon, spread the softened goat cheese along the dough, leaving about an inch and a half naked around the perimeter—this will be folded into a crust.

Spread caramelized onions evenly over the cheese, then place tomatoes on top. Sprinkle shaved Pecorino or Parmesan over the top and garnish with parsley.

Fold the edges of the dough over, creating a crust around the perimeter of the crostata.

Brush with egg wash and bake for 30 minutes.

Pate Brisee

(Double this recipe if you are making a pie)

1 ¼ c all purpose flour—use high quality stuff here. I like King Arthur.
¼ tsp salt
2 ½ tbsp sugar
6 tbsp (¾ stick) cold, unsalted butter cut into ½ inch pieces
¼ c ice water (you may not use it all)

In a food processor, stand mixer or with a vigorous fork, mix flour, salt and sugar.

Add the butter and pulse until mixture resembles small pearls.

Add the water, pulsing intermittently until the dough comes together. (You may have to add more water as you go to get the dough to form a smooth ball.)

Pat the dough into a disk, wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 30 minutes.

On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to 1/8” thick.

Transfer it to a Silpat or parchment paper-lined baking sheet and refrigerate for 30 more minutes.

I tend to start roasting late morning when my eyes need a break from the newspaper. I’ll get up from my big chair by the window, pad over to the kitchen, and figure out what to do with what I hauled in from Saturday’s farmers’ market. I’ve found it’s pretty easy to improvise when you keep staples on hand: as long as I have some herbs, aromatics and good oil, I’m guaranteed to turn my loot into something delicious, even if great inspiration fails me.

A few markets ago I came into some cheerful sweet peppers that begged to be fire roasted and featured. I thought of stuffing them at first, to show off their smooth, bright outsides, but at the last minute remembered how much I delight in ‘grilling’ over the open gas flame in my kitchen. I love the way the peppers pop and snap in the heat, and how the house starts to smell sweet and smoky.

On this particular Sunday morning, I rooted around and found a fat bunch of parsley, some pine nuts and a jar of Israeli couscous that seemed like potential companions to my blackening peppers. Israeli couscous—a soft, pearly grain that’s almost like a delicate orzo—could be as easy as setting a pot of water to boil. On Sundays, I take a slightly more involved approach, which creates a rich and savory foundation. I ate this yellow pepper couscous for days, sometimes warm and on its own, and other times thrown onto a salad or mixed with other roasted vegetables I had squirreled away between stabs at the crossword puzzle.

Israeli Couscous with Charred Peppers

For Peppers

Char, grill or broil 2-6 sweet peppers depending on size. When peppers are sufficiently blackened and soft, cover and let stand until cool. Remove skins, veins and seeds and chop, adding 1 tbsp turbinado sugar if peppers are bitter. Finely chop 1 generous bunch of parsley. Toast 1 c pine nuts in a heavy bottomed skillet. Combine vegetables and set aside.

For Couscous

Set 3 c of broth to boil—I use vegetable, but chicken would be delicious. In your heavy bottomed skillet, sautée a large, chopped shallot in olive oil until just soft. Pour 1 c dry Israeli couscous into the skillet, adding 2 bay leaves. Stir occasionally until couscous turns amber, about five minutes. When couscous is properly toasted and broth has boiled, pour grain into broth and lower heat, cooking until couscous is soft and broth has drained down, about ten minutes. When finished, drain if necessary.

Combine parsley, pine nuts and peppers with couscous, (I did this in the skillet as all of my broth had boiled down) season with salt and pepper, and serve immediately, garnishing with some Parmesean cheese and serve immediately.

But eggplants can also be the best of what a vegetable can be—crispy or soft, at once charred and sweet, generally the best combination of side-dish flavors. There are quite a few ways to play it well: ratatouille is a personal favorite. Eggplant is still coming up in Texas by the bushel, and I thought it might be nice to share this summertime (and fall-time) favorite with anybody courageous enough to: 1. Stick his or her hands into open flames and 2. Serve eggplant—fairly naked—to a group of guests.

My folks have a nice big fire pit on their concrete dock out on Lake Waramaug in Connecticut. Much was grilled this summer over that fire, but few dishes excited me more than the eggplant I was able to roast while taking a dip. It’s too cold for swimming now, but everybody likes to stand by a fire in the fall, and I highly recommend that you do this dish on a wood-burning, outdoor flame… it’s one of those carnal experiences reminiscent of coming down from the excitement of a great hunt. Or in this case, twenty minutes of wading.

What I loved most of all, was that fact that several naysayers—of the, “Oh, no thanks, I don’t do eggplant,” variety—were greedily dipping into the serving bowl, with markedly more relish than those who’d expected something delicious from the get go. I hardly got a taste of this delight, but for the unexpected happiness of converted guests, it was well worth abstaining.

My friend Gardner Landry, a real Texas boy, taught me this trick in July when he came for a visit to the lake house. A few months later, back again to visit my parents, I tried it on my own, but instead of roasting the eggplant over charcoals from a grill, I called upon my inner Neanderthal and threw my black prize straight onto a load of burning logs. Then I jumped into the water, emerging just in time for dinner.
After about twenty minutes, the eggplant was thoroughly charred on one side, and needed to be turned. Some dubious onlookers—wimps who had decided not to swim in the late September water—wondered how this already detestable vegetable would taste when covered with ash and splinters. They poked at it with curious index fingers. I told them not to worry, but I could tell they weren’t listening. After another 20 minutes of roasting on the other side, the eggplant was ready: fully collapsed, wrinkled and covered with a layer of grey dust.

I took it inside for some doctoring: slipping off the skins with a knife, and pulling out the flesh with the tines of a fork. I cut off the eggplant’s tiny green top, reserving it for presentation. I mashed the garlic with some olive oil and garlic salt to taste, then cleaned the cutting board and re-formed it into the shape of an eggplant, adding back its green stem cap. I then drizzled the flesh with a bit more olive oil and covered it with a sprinkling of chopped parsley and toasted pine nuts. I got back to the dock at around 7:30, and the dish was done by 7:45—I kid you not. Serve it up with some thin crackers or toasted, crusty bread.