They're All Pink On The Inside

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.