Tuesday 3 December
Saturday's chicken thighs and legs
were unceremoniously reheated in broth and wine, with a bit of lemon and olive
and fennel from Holt's birthday salmon.
We needed a whole other plate to
construct the side salad: on a base of red romaine leaves (again, the last
garden gleanings) we arrayed a flower of roasted golden beets, sprinkled them
with goat cheese, and dressed it with white Balsamic and the Divina Cretan olive
oil that Kathy and Russel gave Holt at his birthday party.
So the salad tail wagged the
chicken dog. And I bet that's a sentence
that has never been used in English or any other language.
No comments:
Post a Comment