A Finger in Every Pie

When Less is More

There's nothing quite like a farmer's market to help a girl recover her appetite. Even better if, while still suffering a bit from post-illness weariness, all she has to do to get there is walk across the street.

Earlier this summer, G returned from a Sunday morning errand bursting with momentous news.  "You'll never guess what's right outside.  It's your idea of birthday and Christmas and Sunday morning miracle all wrapped up into one.  C'mon, guess." 

"Oh," I said, coming up with the most preposterous, unlikely idea I could muster, "ummm, well, suddenly, miraculously, masses of fresh locally grown produce are directly outside our door.  Like, there's a farmer's market outside, on our street."

"Yes!" G howled in delight.  Not that it actually made all that much difference to him, since I'm the one that's in the throes of local produce obsession.  And actually, having a Sunday farmer's market across the street is probably a bit of an annoyance for him, since it cuts down parking options on our block.    But he was thrilled on my behalf, and of such emotions are good marriages made.  And maybe at least part of the thrill is on his own behalf.  After all, he does enjoy his share of whatever I cook up from the fresh provender -- especially if it's collard greens, and extra-especially if it's corn. 

Now when I say "farmer's market", you have to understand that this is not Union Square we're talking about.  This is East Harlem, and the market consists of 2 stands.  That being said, between the two we're offered a pretty nice variety of whatever's ripe on the farm.  One of the farmers is originally from Mexico, and in addition to today's peaches, nectarines, plums, apples, pears, grapes, tomatoes, peppers and other fruits and vegetables, he was offering tomatillos, a couple of different kinds of hot peppers, cilantro and several herbs that apparently are traditional in Mexican cuisine which I've never seen at any other market, including Union Square. Both farmers offer their bounty at very reasonable prices, keeping their produce within reach of those who might not be able to afford the offerings at more boutique markets.

While the produce is not organic, the farmers have been willing to have some conversations with me about their growing practices.  They do make the effort to avoid heavy chemical pesticides.  Interestingly enough, they do this because it's more cost-effective for them, or so they claim.  Pesticides are expensive, and if the customer isn't necessarily turned off by a few bug holes in the collard greens, why not avoid them? 

Our neighborhood also has a slightly larger Thursday market, a few blocks further away, which attracts 3, maybe 4 farmers.  Occasionally the nice people from Bread Alone are there too, as are the folks from Cornell Cooperative Extension, who operate a small table where they do cooking demonstrations, give samples of the foods they've made with seasonal produce, hand out recipes and offer information and other resources to the folks who come to look, and hopefully, to buy.  These two markets are not Greenmarkets, however.  They are run by a group called ANWA/Harvest Home (and I found so little information about them that I don't even know what that stands for) in collaboration with Union Settlement.  How can I not love the fact that someone cares about whether or not the people in my neighborhood (most of whom are on fixed incomes or public assistance or just generally living below the poverty line, despite rapid gentrification) have access to fresh, local, seasonal food? 

Lest you should think I don't miss the precious baby sucrine lettuces and wild arugula and tri-star strawberries of Union Square Greenmarket, not to mention many colors of ugly tomatoes, well, of course I miss them.  But I don't feel deprived, or not too much, anyway.  Here's the thing:  by nature,  I'm someone who actually CAN have too much of a good thing.  Especially when that good thing is something that promotes overspending and eventual waste.  I'm sure others are capable of far greater restraint than I, but the the fact is, I rarely leave Union Square market having spent less than about $70, and my sense of being overwhelmed by gorgeous produce and specialty items (fresh sheep's milk cheese!  Free-range quails' eggs! Teeny-tiny gold-nugget potatoes for $6 a pound!) leads me, too often, to buy more than we need -- and certainly to buy more expensively than we need.   

The true motive for shopping more locally (in my own neighborhood, that is) is that this year is going to be the year of living frugally.  I'm on a sabbatical leave (translation:  the portion of my salary that allows for any margin of luxury is the portion I'm not getting in the paycheck this year.  My luxury this year is time, although we've been too encumbered by recent illness and annoying tasks for me to be able to feel or enjoy it yet).  One becomes accustomed to living at whatever level one can afford, and spending accordingly. Cutting back is never easy; however, I'm up for the challenge of being a little more creative about our finances.  It's important to be philosophical about these matters.  By some people's standards, we're in dire financial straits.  From the perspective of many, many others -- well, we're doing just fine.  As one of my students recently said, it's all relatives (family members not withstanding).

Occasionally I'm sure I'll allow myself the pleasure of a spin down to Union Square.  But for now, while there's still corn outside my door at four ears for a dollar, I'll be factoring convenience and price points into the quest for healthy and local food. 

And what to do with that corn?  Well, I'm coming round to the idea that perhaps less is more when it comes to preparing produce, too.  G could happily eat steamed corn on the cob seven nights a week when it's in season.  But me, ah, well, the quest for novelty is ever-present.  Earlier in the summer I made fresh corn soup as well as several mixed sautés of vegetables that included sweet nuggets of corn nestling in among the squash and peppers and tomatoes.  But I wanted something different from that too -- a dish in which the corn could be the star.

With this in mind, I found a recipe for fresh corn polenta in Suzanne Goin's lovely book Sunday Suppers at Lucques.  This seemed to me a capital idea, consisting, as it did, of sautéed kernels folded into more-or-less conventionally-made polenta (although Ms. Goin's is long cooked, with a high proportion of water).  I couldn't even wait for dinnertime to try it out.  I got up early the next morning and made a pot of excellent stone-ground grits and folded the sauteed kernels in along with some lumps and bumps of sharp Vermont cheddar cheese.  Delectable, especially when sided with crisply fried sausage patties.  Emboldened by this success, I went on, a day or so later, to try the dinnertime version with polenta. 

I knew I had polenta in the house, since someone had recently given me a packet as a gift.  A packet whose label I hadn't read.  A packet that turned out to be quick-cooking polenta.  How bad could it be?  I cooked it up despite my misgivings, folding in the fresh sweet corn kernels and some Parmigiano Reggiano, and served it up next to crisply sautéed filet of sole and green beans in a thickly simmered jam of fresh tomato, garlic and basil.  I feel quite sure that the reason the polenta turned out to be such a dud-like bowl of gruel has nothing to do with Ms. Goin's excellent recipe.  It's simply the gluey result one gets from instant-style polenta (conversely, I knew that the reason why my experiment with the grits had turned out so well was that they, unlike the polenta, were a coarsely textured stone-ground product).  The addition of fresh corn to the polenta studded it with beautiful kernels of corny goodness which somehow didn't do a thing to mitigate its pastiness or provide any sort of much-needed flavor boost. It was merely, as G says whenever he considers something okay but not particularly delicious, "fine." 

"Fine," I thought. "I can still do something delicious with the leftovers," because leftovers there were, however gummily unyummy they might be.  In my mania to conserve precious natural resources in addition to the dwindling resources inside my wallet, I simply had to use this stuff up.  I though of a recent blog post I'd seen on Orangette that had, at its end, a recipe for polenta fries. "Great!" I thought. "Instead of making the polenta the way it is in Molly's recipe, I'll just use my leftovers and cut them into sticks and fry them.  Perfect."

No. Not perfect.  Not perfect at all.  I wasted an entire bottle of cooking oil, burned my hand and made my kitchen smell like fried food, something I studiously avoid any more than once or twice a year, tops.  And all in the name of making these rather nasty fried logs of starchiness which, at first attempt, fell apart completely in the oil, and then, when I cleverly coated the next batch in cornstarch to make them stick together, burned and well, just weren't particularly flavorful, since the pap of which they were composed wasn't all that good to begin with. So again, please be advised that this has NOTHING to do with Molly's lovely recipe, which I did NOT follow, since I was using up leftovers and just going with the concept of polenta fries rather than her careful recipe. 

All I can tell you is that as G valiantly chawed through the crunchy but tasteless corn logs on his plate, I knew, despite his avowed love of corn, cheese and  all things deep-fried, he could only be thinking "Why couldn't we just have had corn-on-the-cob?"  There's a lesson in that somewhere.  I'm aware that for the most part, my efforts to economize and use things up are  rewarded with something delicious -- or at least edible. In this case, however, trying avoid waste merely led to waste:  a whole bottle of wasted oil, wasted corn mush (lots of it got thrown away), wasted time and energy.  In this case, the waste was caused by a low-quality ingredient: the instant polenta. 

Even though the dish might have been wonderful with real polenta, I think that for the moment, I'm going to stick with the less-is-more premise -- particularly when it comes to corn.  For the rest of the season, as long as the corn lasts, we'll enjoy simply steamed ears, sweet and milky and toothsome. And you, being wiser than I, will probably do the same even without my cautionary tale.

However, in the event that you have a few ears left over from steaming, and you're in the mood for a corny breakfast (or for that matter, dinnertime) treat, the following is still well worth a try. 

Fresh Corn Grits
serves 2 generously or 3 modestly

1 cup stone ground grits (these are good, and if you don't feel like ordering 10 pounds at a time, you can also get them here, which is where I first found them)

2 to 2 1/2 cups water 
2 Tbsp. butter
1 tsp. salt
2 ears leftover steamed sweet corn 
2 oz. good cheddar cheese, in small cubes
freshly ground black pepper

Bring 2 cups of water to a boil.  Stir in grits, 1 Tbsp. of butter, and salt.  Return to a boil, reduce heat and cook slowly, covered for at least 1/2 hour, stirring every few minutes.  Add more water if it becomes too thick.

While the grits are cooking (please don't skimp on the cooking time -- long, slow cooking makes these better than you ever thought they could be), shave the kernels from the cob with a sharp knife.  Sauté them until they become slightly browned in the remaining tablespoon of butter.  Stir them, along with the cheese, into the hot grits.  Serve immediately with black pepper ground over the top. 

Without Appetite

I've been off my feed of late.  That's an extremely indelicate turn of phrase, isn't it?  I think it's what's commonly used to refer to barnyard animals refusing their mash.  Although I may occasionally pretend to a certain gentility, I hereby confess to a definite liking for those animalistic-type idiomatic expressions.  "Off my feed."  It's almost, although not quite, as good as inviting one's dinner guests to "strap on the ol' feed bag." 

In any case, I just haven't been able to shake intermittent shooting stomach cramps, headaches, laggardly sleep patterns and just general, all-round feelings of malaise.  My sinus infection is long gone, but I had to remain on  a course of antibiotics for 10 days -- and then I had to take some more antibiotics to clear up the symptoms brought on by the first round of antibiotics.  I never react well to these drugs, but this time I feel like the cure has been worse than the illness. 

I had chalked all the sickness up to drugs in my system -- but then G was mysteriously stricken with dizziness/vertigo and a raging fever, all without any particular respiratory or intestinal symptoms.  Very strange. 

So all this leaves us with the sad truth that food just hasn't been of much interest to either of us for some little time now.   I mean we do get hungry, and we do eat -- I just don't get a yen for anything in particular, and I eat to fill my belly rather than to satisfy an appetite. 

It's a bit strange to feel this way, so uncaring about meals; I guess I wonder if this is how other people live.  You know who I mean:  the people who call you "Betty Crocker" or "Suzie Homemaker" behind your back because you bring homebaked goodies to work to share with them (or I guess if you're a guy they call you "Emeril" or "Ace of  Cakes" or something like that).  They're the same folks who seem think it's an act of horrendous vanity or grievous indulgence to put time or effort into farm-market shopping and homemade meals -- who have more or less made a virtue not only of eating grim frozen pizza and joyless chicken nuggets, but of giving them to their kids as well.  So many people behave as if they're somehow above caring about what they eat; feeding themselves a few times a day is a burden, rather than any sort of pleasure (although a lot of them confess to watching the Food Channel -- which many of the people I know who actually cook, almost never do.  I, for example, usually reserve the Food Channel for when I'm strapped into a Jet Blue seat with 37 channels of DirectTV in my face -- or if I'm getting a pedicure, and they have the close-caption on).  And sometimes, some of these non-cooking-type people act as if you (because you DO care about food, and what you eat, and what other people eat) are someone who is simply not to be taken seriously in any other arena. 

What it makes me realize is that the act of taking joy in my food is, in itself, a pleasure to me.  And when I don't feel the pleasure in the pleasure that I normally take, that in itself makes me melancholic, if not downright miserable. 

This morning we went to do some necessary food shopping, since there were regular staples that we needed.  And I stood in the cold room at Fairway, surrounded by thousands of pounds of comestibles, and couldn't think of a single thing that I actually wanted to cook or eat. 

I just have to wait a bit until this passes, which it surely will, and I will be back here at AFIEP with something delicious to tell about or try or share.  I'll hang in there, and hopefully you will, too, till it's time to strap on the ol' feed bag again.

The Disaster That Wasn't

The flavors of the past can be deceptive.  Do the foods we try to recreate seem to fail us because they don't, in actuality, live up to the treats upon which we once feasted?  Or are they imbued with the savor of nostalgia, a flavoring essence that defies the possibility of true resurrection?   

Not long ago, I had an exchange with my brother in the comments field of a post on this very blog.  The subject was cakes we'd eaten in our childhood, including a chocolate studded ring-shaped cake, glazed in more chocolate and drenched in rum.  It was made by a small French bakery called Le Chanticler in the town of our youth.  This was not the other French bakery which also existed in the town, Le Gourmet.  That was the one where every mouthful was rich with butter.  No, Le Chanticler made bread, tough little cookies and had just a few workhorse specialties.   Their "rum ring" was the only one my mother purchased with any regularity.

I decided that I would try to reconstruct this delicacy for my brother's birthday.  I further decided that I would do it in time for the justly-celebrated David Lebovitz's edition of Sugar High Friday, using a brand-name chocolate.  This way I could do a test-run and repeat the cake the following weekend for the birthday celebration. 

I bought some lovely Green & Black's organic chocolate, and proceeded to construct a recipe.  My memory of the cake was that it was similar in texture to a savarin or a rum baba, so I found an excellent brioche-style dough for savarin in Sherry Yard's The Secrets of Baking, and made it up with quantities of chopped dark chocolate folded into the dough.  It rose beautifully, it baked gorgeously, and received its soaking of rum syrup as well as its glaze of dark chocolate. 

Then we sliced it and tasted it. 

G saw my disappointed face, and shrugged.  "I think it tastes good," declared my loyal fiancé.  It did taste reasonably good.  It just didn't taste like the cake of my memory.  Instead, it tasted like very good brioche with chocolate in it that had been drenched in rum syrup and glazed in chocolate.  It was, in fact, a little bit bready.  Kind of more bready than cakey.  The cake of my memory had had that sodden yet supple quality of a good baba au rhum.  My rummy chocolatey bready ring didn't quite cut it, as far as I was concerned. 

I wrapped it up, put it in the fridge and ignored it quite pointedly for several days.  Since I didn't serve him any, G promptly forgot about it as well.  I didn't post the photos I'd taken of it during its rising and after its baking, and I didn't write a post about it for Sugar High Friday.  I was too busy snubbing the sad rummy thing taking up space in my refrigerator.  And I was too disheartened to try another run in time for my brother's birthday, especially since I wasn't quite sure how to remedy the recipe.  [Instead, I ended up making the same cake I'd made for him last year -- *King of Chocolate* David Lebovitz's German Chocolate Cake, with a few of my own adaptations.  It had been such a success that I thought "well, once a year is certainly not too often for this cake."  It was received once again with much acclaim, including somewhat overblown statements like "This isn't just the best cake you've ever made -- it's the best cake anyone's ever made." ]

But the rum ring that refused to live up to expectations continued sitting coolly in the depths of the fridge.  Finally I decided to take it to work for an afternoon staff meeting.  Hungry high school teachers will eat anything, especially if it's sweet.  Surprisingly, it didn't just get eaten.  It got gobbled, amid declarations of love and avowals of fidelity to this cake/bread, if only I would ever make it again.  Breaching my own disdain, I cut myself a small slice.  To my surprise, although it still was not the rum ring of blessed memory, it was quite delicious.  Unlike most cakes and people, it had benefitted substantially from a combined process of neglect and aging. 

I will try the rum ring again at some point, I think.  I'll probably find another recipe -- something eggier, chewier, springier somehow.  I'll soak it in more rum syrup, and see once again if I can't recreate the Chanticler's special cake.   I'll just try to bear in mind that while cake may be replicable, memory -- experience -- nostalgia -- is not.

Remains of the Day

Thanksgiving often includes one or more of the following: physical and emotional ups and downs, enormous changes at the last minute, and triumph snatched from the jaws of disaster.  Ours, this year, combined all of these sterling attributes.  I'll draw a tasteful veil over several of the ups and downs, sufficing with the story of my aged father, who, after having agreed to come to Manhattan, began waffling about going out of the house.  A barrage of phone calls between his household, mine, and my brother's occurred as I was up to my elbows in the makings for pie, stuffing, turkey, etc., in an apartment that resembled the seventh circle of hell due to a 500F oven and the apartment's customary state of extreme disorganization.  My dad was finally persuaded to come out.  He had, however, already stolen G's thunder for the day by trumping him in the role of cranky-guy-who-didn't-feel-like-leaving-the-house.  Finally the first round of crises were resolved.  Souffléed pumpkin and toffee-apple-crumble pie were cooled, turkey tested at the correct temperature, and we prepared to go downtown with our many bags and boxes.

What had been planned as a quiet dinner for five in the suburbs had turned into a merry roistering evening for fifteen on the Upper East Side.  This was no problem, since we probably had food enough for thirty.  People brought wonderful dishes and conversation was as effervescent as the sparkling Flag Hill cyder.   Everything was going just swimmingly; all were imbibing and nibbling the savory cheese dollars I'd baked right before leaving the house, and exclaiming over the gorgeous smoked trout paté made by my brother.  Everything that needed heating was in the oven. 

Suddenly there came an urgent call.  I was needed in the kitchen.  I walked in to find my brother wielding a carving knife and looking askance at my lovely herb-roasted, crisply brown 18-pound natural free-range high-roasted turkey, which he had carved enough to reveal a rather reddish-pink center.   That meat thermometer had lied to me.  What to do?  I felt my ego collapse more quickly than my popovers, but this was no time for pride.  The day -- and the turkey -- had to be saved.  We shoved our poor, semi-butchered bird back into a high-heat oven, and decided that since we had almost everything else out on the buffet already, we'd serve, and turkey would come out a bit later.  This plan worked well, and the bird, when it was finally ready, was absolutely delicious. 

So all turned out well despite the dire warnings of Christopher Kimball, who made a point of calling in to Radio Open Source when I was on the Thanksgiving 2.0 program on Wednesday night.  Chris had called to tell me that roasting at 500F would be a disaster; he predicted the turkey breast would come out like cardboard.  I had entertained visions of a perfectly roasted, juicy bird that would stand up on its hind legs and say "Take that, Christopher Kimball!"  Don't get me wrong about the monarch of America's Test Kitchen -- after all, I wouldn't want to be un-American on this particular holiday.  I'm actually rather fond of his publication and website,  Cook's Illustrated, which can be a great reference.  For me it usually serves as a starting point rather than as the final word, however.  My problem with Cook's is that it sees itself as THE answer, operating on the premise that there's one right way to do everything.  I actually think there are at least as many ways to roast a bird as there are good cooks.  That can be the only reason why so many accomplished cooks each swear by their own method. 

In any case, our bird finally emerged still juicy and succulent, with an incredibly crisp brown skin.  While it wasn't picture perfect, due to its premature butchering, we found that the high-heat roasting had promoted a heavily seared exterior, and locked in the juices.  Our problem was due to the fact that the meat thermometer didn't give an accurate reading, perhaps because it was such a large bird.  And, interestingly enough, I've already encountered two other experienced cooks-cum-food-bloggers who ran into the exact same problem this very Thanksgiving.  So I do feel better about it all, and I'm still willing to give high heat roasting another go. 

Our leftovers were excellent last night, still moist and yummy upon reheating.  And consider what you see in the photo at the top of this post.  The frame of this turkey produced the richest, brownest poultry stock I've ever seen, which in turn produced a turkey-vegetable-barley soup which has all the deep flavor of the most divine turkey gravy imaginable, savory with vegetables and aromatics.  Can't wait for tonight's dinner, either --  especially since there's still some toffee-apple-crumble pie for after the soup and sandwiches...

These Boats Have Sailed

Both Sugar High Friday and Is My Blog Burning? slipped through my fingers this month.  Somehow I didn't become aware of Alice's Citrus theme until it was too late -- probably because I'm not doing enough blog reading these days.  And I had lots of ideas for jelling with Elise -- but the one I finally chose was unsatisfying, to say the least.   I made it, but I didn't really like it -- and didn't have enough time to snap it and write about it before the deadline.  So I missed out, although I know I'm going to be greatly inspired by all those who participated in either or both of these great events. 

I figured that even though I was too late for SHF,  I would do something that was both citrus and jelled.  I made an old family favorite, a lemon icebox cake called "Lemon Hoo-Ha".  This was a famed dessert of my mother's dearest lifelong friend, whom I think of as my "other mother".  It should have been wonderful; it always is.  It's just that I made certain adaptations.  The first issue was that I didn't want to use Lemon Jello, which is called for in the recipe.  And I didn't want to use powdered or even leaf gelatin for two reasons.  One is that I'm making an effort not to use cow-derived foods from non-organic sources, and I couldn't find organic gelatin.  The other is that I was making the dessert to bring as part of a dinner that we carried downtown to my brother and my sister-in-law, who just moved.  My sister-in-law is a pescetarian, and so their household is mostly meat-free.  That meant that even if I had found an organic meat-derived gelatin, such a substitution wouldn't work for its intended audience. 

The second adaptation had to do with eggs.  The recipe as written calls for beaten egg whites to be folded into a cool mixture, which is then chilled.  This is the old retro-chiffon, which we all ate merrily when none of us thought about salmonella and continually chowed down raw eggs in many guises, from caesar salad to chocolate mousse.  But since clearly nothing is safe anymore, I beat the egg whites with sugar in a double boiler, which made a smooth Italian meringue sort of mixture.  That part worked fine.

Back to the gelatin issue. I decided to make the dessert with pectin instead of gelatin.  I'm not going to go into details, but I was less than thrilled with the result.  My brother and SIL apparently loved it -- they both made nice noises, and she had seconds, in fact.  G doesn't like lemon desserts much anyway, and I (and I know I'm overly picky about these things) felt that the texture was gritty from the pectin, and that it added a strange flavor.  In addition, it just doesn't hold up the way gelatin does.  The dessert when chilled had a soft-set gel texture and could actually be cut in slices, but when I unwrapped the piece I'd brought home to photograph, it had turned into goop. 

I promise that sometime soon I will source an adequate gelatin substitute (kosher gelatin maybe?) so that I can make, photograph, and tell the real story behind Lemon Hoo-Ha  - the story of a friendship that goes far beyond mere dessert.

Ah well.  Perhaps I'll get in on Dine and Dish this month, and get together an End of the Month Egg on Toast Extravaganza.  Onward and upward; there's always next month, and the challenges that a new set of food memes will bring.

Great Balls of Fire

In late-breaking kitchen news, I set our toaster oven on fire the other night.  I was making some nice open-faced grilled cheese frankfurters to go with bowls of just-made black bean soup  for a cozy supper.  I have this bad habit of putting these things directly on the rack, rather than using the neat little grill pan you see sitting on top of the (now clean) toaster oven to the right.    It's just that I like the bread to get all toasty and crisp on the bottom.

To be frank (tee hee), I'm not doing what the manufacturer recommends.  I'm naughty, you see.  You mustn't try this at home, girls and boys.  By a stroke of undeserved luck, the aforementioned franks had already been removed from the toaster oven when suddenly flames began to shoot up from the foil-coated floor of the little oven.  Probably the drippings from our crispy little sandwiches of joy had helped other debris on the oven floor to ignite.  Yes, debris -- now you know all.  The secret's out.  Some things I'm good at -- housekeeping, not so much.  I will now draw a tasteful veil over the tired litanies of how much we work and haven't had a lot of time lately to do things like clean the toaster oven.  Of course, you all know how difficult it is to get decent help these days.  Especially when you yourself are basically living a life of not-very-glorified servitude.

Back at the ranch, the flames were shooting up, and I was throwing handfuls of coarse salt into the oven, trying to stanch them.  G reached for the box of table salt and began throwing that in.  "Don't use your expensive stuff, sweetie," he said.  "The kosher salt's no more expensive than table salt, I don't think," I replied.  "Oh," said he.  "I thought you were using your fancy yuppie f*cko salt."  "My MALDON  salt? " I cringed in horror at the very idea.  "You think I would throw my MALDON salt into the toaster oven to put out a fire?  Better it should go up in flames."  "Hmmm, yeah, better the whole apartment should burn down," he muttered as the flames succumbed to a blanket of salt.

I was tempted to simply chuck the salt-filled toaster oven and buy a new one, but instead I decided to cleanse both my soul and the appliance.  I cleaned it out meticulously, put fresh aluminum foil down, and fired it up.  After a bit of smoking and a slightly strange smell which burned off, the elements heated up nicely, and the whole thing was glowing inside and out, just like new. 

And thus were our lives lit up the other night with this toasty little drama.  In all honesty, G was rather delighted.  He has something of a pyromaniacal streak, and is always hoping that when I mention creating a new dish for "Is My Blog Burning?" it means I'm going to cook by lighting something on fire.  As a matter of fact, he feels that if I were ever to host that venerable event, my theme should be flambée.