I am not quite superhuman, I discovered last week. Pretty close, but not quite.
Wearing a white sweatshirt, I roasted and peeled fresh beets and prepared a beet soup.
About the time my hands were covered with beet juice and the cutting board was liberally splotched with deep, dark pink, I realized that I should probably have changed into something darker and pinker. I checked my sweatshirt, found it unmarked, and continued peeling.
I thought I'd made it through the entire process with sweatshirt unscathed, but afterwards I found two faint pink spots on the front, as if someone had lightly tapped me with a pink highlighter.
Unlike the sweatshirt, the soup came out perfect: tasty winter root vegetables and greens, and the most amazing color. I think it's great, especially with yogurt and a baked Japanese sweet potato on the side, but Oz has flatly refused to consider anything with beets in. (He has only experienced the soup telephonically.)
"Fresh are way better than canned," I told him. "I hate canned beets too."
"When my Polish grandma made borscht, she didn't use canned beets. They didn't have them then."
"Oh, come on. It was the fifties! They had canned everything."
Oh well, more soup for me. Also, in the process of researching the beet roasting process, I found The Italian Dish. Sadly I don't think even pine nuts and pancetta will make beets acceptable to Oz.
Oh well. More for me.
244 words | January 25, 2010 10:21 PM | Kitchen