donkeys, rope-burn, and crazy, stupid grace.

When I was around 25 years old, someone told me that I live a life of struggle, and that it wasn't normal or necessary. 

They framed it as a question, which quickly snowballed into a series of sharper, more irritated questions: why do you live a life of such struggle when it's not normal, and it's not necessary? why do you always have such terrible things on your mind? why do you always seem to be dealing with such awful things? more than any other person I know. do you enjoy it, or something? 

On one hand: Reminiscing upon my 25-year-old self, I can't really disagree. I had a lot of baggage to deal with; some of it, from my childhood, was beyond my control, while some of it, accumulated in my young adulthood, was due to my own choices. I didn't have a great sense of forward regarding processing painful experiences; my personality is bulldog-stubborn and controlling in that, once I realized that I had some power over the painful experiences, I became a little obsessive in delving to the depths and trying to understand them fully from the bottom up. I want to have a handle on it. I want to beat it. I will beat it. And beat it, and beat it, and beat it, if I have to. I will kill this thing. 

This isn't necessarily unhealthy, but it can be. Some of my reasons for obsessively exploring my pain were guilt-born: Surely there's a lesson here. I have to find it. I have to find the meaning. This has to mean something. God must be trying to tell me something. I'm not hearing it. What am I doing wrong. Must work harder; most probe more deeply; must listen harder. 

The fact is: Painful experiences can never really be laid to rest. They'll always be painful. Always. Continuing to poke at the bruises, in the sincere interest of healing, exploration, and even inspiration, can creep toward anchoring one's identity in one's previous victimhood, which is, at times, a line I occasionally crossed without realizing it. The line's different for everyone, and I've thankfully backed away from mine.

On the other hand. 

The center of those words was good, but there were too many words, and the meaning became a little of what it shouldn't. The words were offered briefly, and not in a full context. They spoke to my immediate coping habits, but my entire history also heard them, and every little girl I was, at every age, at the hands of every indignity, flinched to hear those words as an indictment. And the adult me flinched to hear those words in light of the very real difficulties I bore on behalf of those girls - the concrete facts of personal responsibility for problems that I had worked to fully own, that I might fully outgrow them. 

Those words hurt. They shamed, and catted, and invalidated. They came from the heart of a person intending good, but whose personal frustrations sullied their attempts to speak truth into what they viewed as my shortcomings. They lumped everything of mine in one ugly clump of inappropriate. They spoke from the perspective of a person whose experiences with and definition of "hardship" were valid, but differed from mine. 

I actually forgot all about them, until recently, as the stress of the past few weeks wore down my ability to be normal, do what's necessary, shut the terrible things out of my mind, not deal with the awful things. Just be. Just do, and as I slid toward the end of my rapidly-fraying rope, hands burning, I thought to myself, why am I doing this? why do I feel so horribly, horribly guilty for the past two years? why am I dealing with such terrible th - and then, I remembered. Oh. That. 

Huh. 

_____

Don't you just feel better when you operate out of a sense of grace? when you hear the words that are spoken to you through what you know of the person's intent, rather than through the clamor of your own bustling, chipped bravado? 

The person who said those words to me: I know their intent. That person loved me. They wanted good things for me. They also didn't particularly like me, felt insecure around me; maybe it felt good for them to stick it to me a little, for reasons that will always be their own. But it doesn't matter how the bruise got there: all that matters, now, is that those words have become one of those bruises that I have to stop poking. They're the first words to fly up behind my eyelids every time I breathe deeply to process some new thing which, really, I'd rather not find myself needing to process, thank you very much. They silence me. And that's stupid. 

Many of the worst things that people have said to me over the past eighteen months have sincere origins. You can probably remember times when the same has been true of what people have said to you. Recognizing that the state of your heart can affect your hearing isn't excusing the wrong in what people say; I guess, maybe, it's choosing to humble yourself enough to recognize that you're not above bearing the offense inflicted by a fellow human being; it's choosing to assign greater value the right in what they say. It's hand-in-hand with evaluating the truth of the message before considering the source and intent. Even a donkey can say cool things. [I feel like I've read that somewhere.]

I guess it's an equal-responsibility thing: Be careful with your words; and, maybe even more importantly, be careful, little ears, how you hear. And may grace abound on both sides. Because, as exhausting as it may sound to purposefully administer grace to the people in your life who have hurt you, it's even more exhausting to withhold it. 

If you're asking me why so much struggle? - believe me, I don't know. I know others whose lives have also included lots of personal struggles, and they don't know why, either. If you don't understand it, consider yourself lucky, and keep the judgy-judgy to a minimum. And maybe throw calzones at me (good ones, or I'm throwing them back). 

As I find myself in a completely different wilderness - one in which I feel as though my entire foundation has crumbled, and the path forward holds none of the hope and innate optimism I've had the energy to conjure previously - it's like being sucked under salt water, surfacing long enough for one quick, ineffective gulp of air before crashing beneath again. It is, amusingly, like an incredibly busy meal service - the thirty seconds or so when the board is clear, and you have just enough time to restock three-quarters of your empties, gulp some water, and maybe change one bandaid before the onslaught begins again. [and crap, did I throw away the old bandaid? yes. whew.]

All I know is that grace, in ridiculous, torrid, nonsensical abundance, for others, and for myself, is the surest way out. 

seven pictures.

1. My grandmother and I are sitting at the church piano. I am six, she is age unknown. My grandmother's hawkish Italian nose is squinched upward, hoisting her bifocals level with her pupils. Her upper teeth remain exposed to the air as she pounds out songs to Jesus, head lurching up and down between music and keyboard as though a misplaced note will cause Earth's atmosphere to suck her directly off the stage and into the wall. The dry clickety click of her nails against the ivory reminds me of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique, in which skeletons dance to a juxtaposition of sacred Dies Irae and pagan witch song. My pigtails are festooned with ribbons, one pink, one lavender, and my head is tilted to the side, soft chin forward, eyes caught wide in a moment of unselfconscious amusement, and I'm smiling at the thought that her teeth may actually fall out of her mouth, which is not something I'd ever witnessed, but I knew they were fake. We are buddies, we are pizza pals, we are needful friends.

2. 1982, according to the scrawl on the back of the picture; I am not two years old. My father and I lie on the floor under a blanket. Our customary position is an arrangement on the couch wherein he lays on his side, legs bent at the knee, and I burrow between the knees and couch with blankets in order to create an environment known as "The Nest." In this picture, though, we are on the floor, and the story goes that we are both sick with the flu, which is no reason to nest on the floor, but anyway. His arm is under my head and he whispers to me. His eyes are alight with a dark-haired, puppy-eyed baby girl in pajamas. My face is upturned with the attentiveness of a person formulating a good response, even then. He is thirty-two, I am not two, and for now we are in love.

3. It is Christmas morning circa 1994. Gifts are opened, exhausted bodies puddle in chairs, and Wiggy the cockapoo takes center floor beside the horrible glass and goldtone coffee table, which is no less tacky than our mint-green house in a neighborhood awash in beige. We begged, we all pleaded with my mother, beige? cream? ecru? maybe a nice brown mustard with brick trim? to no avail and our neighbors declined to bring us welcome baskets. Currently a Puerto Rican family owns the house and they've chosen a bright melon hue while having kept my mother's kelly-green shutters. But this picture is Christmas morning circa 1994, and Wiggy pants in crinkled-paper excitement. She is adorned with green collar bells, red nail polish, and a gold crepe paper hat. Her humans are together, the atmosphere is relaxed, the air smells of hot meat and fruit, there are things which squeak and smell like newness, and she's just happy to smile at the human holding the small flashing thing in front of her face.

4. It is the year 2000. My brother's wedding. My parents are posing for a picture in front of a huge landscaped oak. They have been rawly divorced for nearly two years. My mother stands unyielding, one arm stiffly around my father's back as she looks straight at the camera without smiling, eager to pull away from this man who follows her and sorts through her trash. He, for his part, is every inch the pastor, The Authority Of God Rests With Me, feet planted wide, arm snugly around my mother's waist (you are still my wife), the assertive yes! great! yes! hallelujah! smile. This is a happy occasion and we are happy! In this photo my mother is dying from the inside out while my father's blank eyes shine because they have to, and it's painful to view.

5. It is March 1981, and an infant with a full head of shiny dark hair is slouched in an infant chair on the couch. Overnight, a huge purple welt has appeared between Baby's upper lip and nose. It's fine, just a birthmark, the pediatrician assures the hyperventilating mother. One year later, Baby will drop a huge can of corn on her toe and this rich purple will appear beneath the right big toenail, the mother will hyperventilate, the pediatrician will reassure as she aspirates the trapped blood with a big honkin needle. The purple toenail will remain for the next six months. For six months Baby will violently refuse the removal of her right sock under any circumstances; her foot swishing back and forth in the bathtub and the strange, congested feeling of water seeping through thick sock material. There will be times when she will wish to wear a sock over her upper lip.

6. The young family, circa 1984. The mother, pale and soft-looking, pretty. The father, the commercial artist, rough-handed, half-smiling, moustache and hair in workaday disarray. Memories of my father are always clad in denim and plaid flannel, rough whiskers pushing, and I remember the smell of my father's return from work, solvents and sweat and musty basement. I imagine that my brother is awash in this smell as he leans against my father's shoulder. Little girl in the mother's lap, little boy in the father's, children in mid-fidget, a perfect candid capture on film. My father has mailed me this photo during my first year in college and has scrawled on the back, "Simpler times. Remember them." These are not simple times for everyone in this photo; he just doesn't know it.

7. 1997, I think. The music department of the Lois Cowles Harrison Center for the Performing Arts and Music have been loaded onto three charter buses and are making our way to a week-long stay in New York City. We are en route to or from in this picture, and the window behind me is dark. I am turned in my seat to face the friends with cameras. A small stuffed Elmo doll in my right hand serves as microphone and I am belting out Mariah Carey's "Hero" at the top of my lungs as my friends cackle and snap photos. Chorus teacher Mrs. McLaurin bellows "THERE IS TO BE NO SINGING ON THIS BUS" and we laugh hysterically, because we are teenagers on a cross-country bus in the middle of the night and everything, everything is hilarious. There are later pictures of me sucking on Elmo's eyeball, others of fifteen people piled into two seats, and still more of me with a strange configuration of Bugle crackers taped to my nose.

'self-indulgent emo kids with lentils' - not a larry david-produced sitcom.

Sometimes - and it's not, like, this big thing - but sometimes, you just need a week to fall apart. When the house is empty, and the huge, looming, beautiful stress-ball of a best friend's wedding has passed, and you take a couple of deep breaths, and everything that you've been straining to exhaustion to keep out of your brain for the past few months comes crashing in from the moment you walk in the door after your trip. And you just go for it. You let it come. You poke at it like a bruise, and pick at it like a scab, and questions that have been chewing on your brainstem for months, you grab them by the shoulders and let them scream into your face, scream right back, wrestling broken-hipped with realities like it's so much harder to be back in Florida than I ever thought it would be, and where is God, what do I really think, should I say it out loud, I lose if I don't, and I lose if I do, and I am so tired of losing people, and for as many times as you've heard the phrase "stalking can affect every aspect of your life for years down the road, emotionally/mentally, socially, professionally, financially, even parts of your life that you never thought would be affected" - it is so fetal-position true. Oh, my god, is it true. 

This has nothing to do with lentils and everything to do with pear upside-down cake, the recipe for which I cannot give you. I'm horrible for teasing you, I know.

But here I am. And the script goes like this: 

I'm actually doing so much better than I could be. 

And this situation, to my knowledge, has resolved so much better than it could have. 

I'm doing a little worse than I want to be. 

I'm probably right where I should be. 

I'm so very grateful. And so lucky. 

I just wish I could get a grip on it. Wish I could distill it down to a two-sentence disclaimer for whenever it has to be addressed - smooth enough so as not to make the listener feel your angst, and succinct enough so as to not invite further discussion. Just part of life. 

I hate it. 

And yet, here I sit, writing about it, for you poor, fine folks who are shifting uncomfortably in your chairs because you're just here for the food. 

Have some lentils, emo kid. 

This is probably my favorite lentil dish in the entire world. There's nothing fancy about it at all; it's just a good, solid, full, warm, comforting dish, for the weeks when you fall apart a little. You don't have to dice your stuff as finely; sometimes, I just feel the need to chop things into tiny, tiny pieces, just because I can. Even though I don't do it nearly as well as I once did. 

Creamy Lentils with Greens
(I think I adapted this from a school recipe, but I can't really remember. Probably did.)

1 cup French lentils (pick through them to be sure there are no stones)

2 slices bacon, chopped

1/3 cup EACH diced carrot, celery, onion, and leek

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 1/2 cups stock (I've used chicken and vegetable, with good results)

1/2 cup cream

1 bay leaf

3 whole cloves

2 tbsp. red wine vinegar

2 tbsp. honey

Salt and pepper

Greens (arugula + spinach is my favorite with this)

Tomatoes, as desired

Place the bacon in a cold, medium-sized pot, and place over medium heat. Cook slowly, stirring occasionally, until bacon has released most of its fat and is crispy, about 20 minutes. 

Add your lentils and veggies and cook 3-4 minutes, stirring occasionally. 

Add stock, cream, cloves, and bay leaves. Bring to a simmer, reduce heat to low, cover, and cook until lentils are tender, about 45 minutes. (Start checking them for tenderness around the 30-minute mark, and add more stock or some water if necessary.)

Remove from heat, and remove cloves and bay leaf. Stir in vinegar, honey, salt, and pepper. Serve over greens with tomatoes. 

Don't use spring mix with these lentils. It was gross.  

a prayer of those who have been changed.

I seek to utter

a prayer of those who have been changed,

those who hold themselves to chairs, stained with sweat 

as great drops of blood, 

and seek to enter some holy of holies, 

but every single one of my thoughts becomes mired 

in a web of tangled overwhelm and rage, and I can't meditate

on pretty language to pretty it up for prettiness' sake, because it is, as I feel,

brutal; at least, I suspect it is, because

I can never get close enough to name its Origin.

I don't know You anymore, as I might have. Some might say

this is normal or healthy, that my view of You might evolve

as my life or personality does. Others say

that You are the ultimate constant. Or, that You should be.
Or, that you shouldn't be. 

My greatest clarity is found in what some might decry as sacrilege, 

which I cannot put down: 

I don't know who You are. 

Sometimes, I think I never really did. 

Sometimes, I think I imagined Your voice. Sometimes, I think

that I just wanted You to be there so badly, that

I imagined You were. 

Sometimes, I think You're breathtakingly cruel. 

That You set us up 

in a system we can never understand, 

playing a game, the big picture of which we cannot see, 

the trajectory of which carries us to eternal consequences that, once seen, can never be remedied, 

and that the only Way Out

is to believe in something that is, 

as You designed us, 

impossible for us to believe. 

and I cannot imagine, for the life of me, 

that this set-for-failure logic is that

of a loving parent; and, not for lack of trying, 

I cannot imagine that this is something

that can feel like a snug fit 

to anyone. 

This has never made sense to me, in years of smoothing it over; this

will never be resolved, for me. I can't do it. 

I am tired of trying to understand you. 

I am tired of guilt in the face of it's not meant for us to understand. 

I am tired of silence in the face of trust and obey.
I am tired of confusion in the face of though the (God-made) heart deceives. 

I am tired of seeing myself shrink in the distant, labored patience 

of those who believe

when I cannot. 

The word tired does not even approach how I feel

about faith

and despair

and responsibility 

and questions like at what point

do your actions invite those actions? at what point

did you, are you, will you, should you, shouldn't you? 

They're coming from inside me, 

but I thought You were there. So 

who is asking? The better question is: 

Anymore, who isn't asking? Of Your children, me included,

who isn't asking? And who dismisses this prayer 

as a curse? 

I wish, God, that I could give you up. 

I really, really do. I am done with you 

in my heart, and the idea of it

is the only thing, God help me (the irony), 

that brings any peace. 

Because it would be so much easier

to bear the weight of things

if I could only truly believe 

in the arbitrary, if I could see them

separate

from You, and what You allow. 

o god, my god, if only you had never expected me to believe

that you hold my life secure

in the palm

of a hand

with a hole in it. 

watching weddings, and wanting more chicken.

On Saturday, after months of planning (read: obsessing in spurts), my best friend, Elizabeth, married her boy, John. 

And I loved this wedding, perhaps more than any other shared moment of my life so far. 

Although John's family has been deeply, actively involved in every step of this wedding as well, for the purposes of this entry, I can really only describe my impressions of Elizabeth's family, having known them longer. And I loved watching this family love their daughter and sister, my best friend. Months of stress and planning have frayed nerves and depleted reserves, but when plans and supplies and people converged in one place, and as stresses were, one by one, set up into beautiful displays of ketubahs and bouquets, cookies and cakes, beautiful music and an atmosphere swelling with supportive presence - I loved to watch Elizabeth's family, and John's family, gather up all of the tasks in the last few days, streamline them into a beautiful path forward, and place Elizabeth facing the sun to walk down the aisle. I loved watching Elizabeth's family members, particularly mother and brother, love her forward in all the ways of their jumble of strong personalities - ranging from brusquely whipping plans into shape, to the quiet, smooth execution of invulnerable timelines half-hibernating for weeks, neither willing to betray the soft spots from which it all flowed, but both undone by their love for their grownup baby girl in a repeated shrug/slight-smile mantra: it's what Elizabeth wants.  

I loved to surreptitiously watch the flower girl, as the bridal party gathered in that cramped, freezing cabin to ready the bride for her groom. I loved watching her stand off toward a corner, then catching her eye, smiling, patting the bed next to me, helping her navigate the jumble of makeup and fabric tape strewn across the quilt, gently teasing out her delight in her daisy-crowned ringlets and fancy dress. I loved her questions, and gauging how vulnerable they made her feel, gauging my own answers to match, and lightheartedly and completely answering questions about strapless bras, eyeliner, bouquets, the duties of a bridesmaid, brushing a light swish of petal-pink blush across her small cheeks and silently praying, with slight, sudden tears, as she watched it all unfold for the first time, that she would always claim her place in the company of strong and joyful women, and that her own romantic future will bring her bright, empowering peace, and joy unspeakable. 

Mommy and Daddy of the bride.

I loved the frenzy, the jumble, the controlled chaos, the teamwork. I loved the lack of sleep, and (most of) the stress. I love that my feet are still killing me from my heels sinking into the dirt (my "thirty-minute shoes"); I love that, as I wore them, I was tipsy enough (at the time) to bear them just fine, briefly aided by the arm of a handsome boy; even more, I loved exchanging them for flip-flops (because I left my cute flats in Florida); I loved that I did not completely break my neck every time my flip-flops slipped in the kitchen. And, in the kitchen, I loved fixing the "ELIZABETH IS HUNGRY RIGHT NOW" meal, the afternoon before her wedding; I chuckled to realize I was filling two plates with cold peach-tea chicken*, pulled pork, hardboiled eggs, baked peans, grapes, apples, vegetables, cheddar - Lisa. Dial it back. That dress has a corset, honey. 

I loved, in a darker, somber fashion, meditating on what I hope for John and Elizabeth after the giddy joy of their wedding has mellowed. I think that, if I were to have offered a toast, it would have been this: It's almost cliche, or trite, to offer a toast to your happiness. I do wish for your happiness, but more than that, I hope that the bigger picture of determined happiness is always in front of you. I hope that, when happiness flows easily and brightly, you lean back and bask in the gentleness of your life together. And I hope that, when you encounter struggle, or loss, or illness, or conflict - I hope, for you, for stamina, and courage, and vulnerability, and, more than anything, a commitment to individual personal inventory, so that, even when you can't find it, you might always know yourselves deeply enough that you can navigate your way to happiness together. I hope, and pray, and believe, that, no matter what, you can always find your way back to that spot near where my heels were sinking into the dirt.   

Photo by Deb Sweeney Wick 

I loved watching my radiant best friend - fellow Booh-Bah hater, fellow years-long Nabucco Dinosaur singer, fellow survivor, fellow food obsessor, my kindred in meaningful things and in everything ridiculous, my sister in every single way that matters - I loved that my life included standing for her as she walked toward her love in a reverent, emotional pagentry of sunlight. I remembered brushing the swish of petal-pink blush across her cheeks an hour earlier, breathing back tears, and silently praying flower-girl prayers of brightness, empowering peace, and joy unspeakable. 

I would not have missed these moments for anything. I would have fought bees? for them. Or even Newt Gingrich in a monkey suit.*

*dude... I'd kill for more of that chicken. Right now. I'd kill you for it. Not really, but I'd consider it. 

**and if you've never played a game called Cards Against Humanity, you should. 

I apologize for doing this to you, but there's bacon in this cake here.

So, if you want to know anything about me, these are the things you should know:

1. I am completely obsessed with streusel. I would make sweet jungle love to streusel, even on a Sunday, and have little streusel babies, and then eat them, like a hamster does with her babies. I'm aware of how disturbing that reads, but really, if you knew me, you'd love me anyway.

2. Bacon.

3. Baking.

4. Cinnamon.

5. This cake.

A New York-style crumb cake is a cake in which the crumb-to-cake ratio is pretty much equal, which means that the cake is  really just a vehicle for streusel, which is all anybody cares about, anyway. If they're worth anything.

A bacon-obsessed friend of mine is moving out-of-state to chase good opportunities. And the best thing to do, when you're having to say a sad goodbye to a bacon-obsessed friend who is moving out-of-state to chase good opportunities - the best thing to do is make her a New York-style crumb cake, with bacon streusel. Even if you have to make it dairy-free (alternate directions follow for dairy-free procedure). And I'm totally sitting here eating a piece of her cake, and I don't even care.

And I have too much going on today, and this is a very disjointed blog entry, and the streusel candies the bacon a little, so it's like biting into tiny, crisp chunks of bacon coated in a very thin layer of smoky-salty caramel, and omg now there's streusel in my keyboard okay bye.

New York-Style Crumb Cake with Bacon Streusel
(adapted from Cook's Illustrated, May 2007)
(I think this would be FANTASTIC with some pecans in it, too. Eff why eye.)

6 oz. thick-sliced bacon, cut into lardons (wee chunks)

STREUSEL (yes, these measurements are correct):
2/3 cup EACH granulated sugar and dark brown sugar
1.5 tsp. ground cinnamon
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
8 oz (2 sticks) unsalted butter, melted

CAKE
2 1/2 cups cake flour (or 2 cups all-purpose and 1/2 cup cornstarch)
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 tsp. baking soda
10 oz. butter
2 eggs
2 yolks
1.5 tsp. vanilla extract
2/3 cup buttermilk

DIRECTIONS:

Grease a 9x13 baking pan; set aside. Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

1. Place the bacon in a cold skillet, then bring up the heat slowly. Over moderate heat, cook the bacon, stirring occasionally, until it becomes browned and crispy and has released all of its fat. RESERVE THE FAT (don't pitch it). Drain the bacon on paper towels to cool slightly.

2. Combine all of the streusel ingredients. Work in the bacon (not the bacon fat). Set aside to cool while you make the cake.

3. In the bowl of a stand mixer, combine the flour (or flour/starch), sugar, and baking soda; mix until combined. Add the butter a little at a time, along with the cooled bacon fat (should be about 2 ounces of fat), and mix until the butter is fully incorporated. Add the eggs, yolks, vanilla, and butter milk, and beat until fluffy, about 1 minute.

4. Pour batter into baking pan; smooth the top. Grab some streusel in your fist to compact it, then break it into large chunks over the batter, covering it evenly (you want crumbs about the size of large peas; bigger is okay, but try not to go much smaller).

5. Bake 35-45 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Serve warm or at room-temp, dusted with confectioner's sugar, if desired.

**DAIRY-FREE TWEAKS: I used Earth Balance for the butter, and soy milk + lemon juice for the buttermilk. Increase your oven temp to 350, and bake for 45 minutes.

"I could be a vegetarian...."

... if not for things like bacon lardons, with their crispy outsides and chewy insides, and the sumptuous oil that releases into the cooking vessel as each lardon hunkers down on itself, concentrates, and becomes more than what it is. And a beef burger - sirloin, 85/15 at least, cooked medium, seasoned with salt to enhance an almost tangy grass-fed funk, served on a toasted brioche bun, and how, if it's worth anything, it anoints itself, and your chin, and your elbows, with its own juices upon first bite; it is perfect communion itself, the quintessential Last Supper, bread and blood. And duck breast, also medium, scored skin seared and crispy, glazed in sticky-sweet, earthy port reduction. And pulled pork - low- and slow-roasted, never given the chance to contract on itself, relaxed and sensual and melt-in-your-mouth. And beef bourguignon, and spicy tuna, and and cold, picnic-basket fried chicken with a better wine than you'd think it deserves.

Yep, I could be a holy vegetarian, if only the dangerously dark, earthy wiles of The Flesh weren't so delicious.

I love veggies, though. They're versatile. I love meat in its whole, clean forms; I love vegetables in any way in which I can manipulate them.

And I hate throwing away food. And I hate boring things. SO.

I can't remember if I've shared this before, but if I have, it's worth sharing again. It's a great multi-purpose thing for using up all those half-dead veggies rolling around in the bottom drawer of your fridge. And it's ridiculously easy. And it's delicious, no matter what you use it for.

Roasted Vegetable Coulis

1 medium eggplant (unpeeled, unless you feel like it)
1/2 head garlic, separated and peeled
1/2 onion
Anything else you want - tomatoes, zucchini/squash, artichoke hearts, mushrooms, leeks, bell pepper - anything that isn't starchy (no potatoes; carrots, parsnips, and the like don't really work here either)
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Cut 'em all up in chunks, toss with oil, salt, and peper, and roast at 425 until soft and caramelized, about 25-35 minutes. Cool briefly, then scrape into food processor. Pulse or process until you're happy with the texture; depending on what I use it for, my preferred texture ranges from chunky to very smooth.


From here, you could use it in a bunch of different ways:

- Serve chunky and warm, as a dip with crusty bread, pita, or tortilla chips (it is deceptively flavorful as-is, with no add-ins)

- Add a few glugs of red wine vinegar, some fresh basil, and a good handful of toasted walnuts (pine nuts are delicious here, but don't nobody got cash for that); process until smooth, add some pasta water, and toss with hot pasta for a rich vegan pasta (garnish with more basil and toasted nuts, if desired).

- Or process until mostly smooth, like this:

.. and use as a "sauce" for pizza, with mozzarella and freshly-grated parm. Just top an unevenly-rolled-out-because-you-don't-give-a-crap-and-besides-those-thin-parts-get-deliciously-crisp crust with some coulis, cheese it, and bake at 500 degrees for 8-10 minutes, or until done.

It's not The Wiles of The Flesh, but it's pretty darn sexy anyway. Lots of roasted red pepper. Can't nobody argue with that.