It has no doubt become tiresome for you all to hear me plaint repeatedly about the lack of time each evening affords me to whip the grub together. So I won't. But it did(n't).
A trip to the market made for some good fixins: ground beef, romanesco, blue potatoes, a leek. The sky, ostensibly, was the limit, though ironically was itself limited by the hour flat I had to make something happen. Iron Chef maybe not, but zinc for sure.
First up, I seasoned the meat with a blend that will get its own post in the near to come. I quartered the romanesco and put it to bake with oil and water, covered, then briefly to broil, uncovered. The spuds I peeled and steamed until yielding to a fork, then puréed with yogurt, olive oil, salt, pepper, and their steaming water. I formed the meat into balls and browned them all over, then removed them to a warm spot while I put a ferocious caramelize on thinly shredded strips of leek.
The meaty, leeky fat in the pan positively brayed for wine, so I obliged. "Another broken sauce!" I hear you whisper, accusingly. And well you should. I am a lazy man. I didn't even strain that shit. But it lubed the balls plenty, and gave the fractalicious brassicas something to titter about. The spuds, well, there's a blue balls joke in there somewhere, but they were creamy goodness, and crispy leeks became a Tired Trope Of The Nineties for a damn good reason.
The other night, with an otherwise unremarkable dinner, we popped a 2001 Guigal Châteauneuf because I haven't bought any everyday wine so we're out. And it was a good thing I did(n't). Just gorgeous. At its peak, it's a mix of leather, licorice, and lavender, all wrapped around a core of black cherries on hot rocks. Tonight, since I still haven't gone out to get a case of the regulars, a 2003 Ada Nada Barbaresco. Not yet peaking, it's still a luscious mouthful of tarry violets and tannic tobacco. The meatballs should have thanked me.