I’m going to admit it. I bought stewed prunes yesterday. What makes matters worse is that I have been fixing to do that for a while. They’re not as good as I remember, although how I know what stewed prunes taste like (and that I’ve been craving them these past weeks) is beyond me. They’re sodden, wrinkly things the color of bruises. In my previous encounters I imagine they were served at some grandmother’s house in porcelain dishes, the kind with wan flowers around the edges. They are stewed in this wonderful dark syrupy liquid that deserves a heavy silver spoon.
Anyways, it’s this purple-black syrup that intrigues me. It tastes similar to the rounded and caramelly sweetness of date honey, and I imagine it would be good trickled onto thick greek yogurt, or ice cream. Can it be fortified or reduced as a sauce for venison? Duck in prune juice. I want to hear of a restaurant that does the opposite of menu-dressing-up. Instead of glazes and braises and all those words that people like me live for, why not see how ugly a dish description can get? Chicken alfredo, for example, would be chicken in white dairy gunk over noodles. Noodles is a fun word but pasta sounds more elegant. Chicken is pretty unattractive as it is. I don’t blame people back in the day for putting everything on the menu in French. Poulet en sauce de crème avec des pâtes. Or something like that.
This is perhaps an example of how blogging can make a writer lazy. Or narcissistic. No one wants to read about some nobody’s soul-searching, especially soul-searching that has no tight moral to be learned, or a recipe at the end. I think I might be turning old ladyish before it’s really acceptable to throw in the towel. I have Netflix, am particular about hand creams, and my idea of an adventure is wandering out into a blizzard to get carrots for a Moroccan Carrot soup. Which is actually an amazing recipe. I added a few cloves of garlic in with the onions, as well as a dash of paprika and curry powder. Also, a bay leaf. I’m still trying to figure out the exact taste of bay leaves…I fished it out and sniffed it before throwing it away–is it like juniper, something piney and full of depth?
The carrots far exceeded expectations. Once blended, the little cooked disks lose their vibrant orange color and become this mellow creamy puree. In the blender, the soup froths in a way that reminds me of steaming milk. First, the stuff rises and puffs and thickens, and then as the scum from the top is sucked down in a steep wall, the whole thing acquires this glossy sheen. Yup, glossy Moroccan Carrot soup. It’s so creamy it doesn’t even need the addition of yogurt, although that never hurts, ever.
Well, like an old lady I’ve rambled off before delivering any sort of message or coherent thread. I care surprisingly little. I’ve got leftover carrot soup, and a Netflix movie I’ve been saving.
