Monday, February 21, 2022

Shall we?

H. T. Webster's Caspar Milquetoast.

Dear Ones,

Here is a picture of my mind at this moment:  

Swirling, like smoke or music, is this refrain: 

the silver apples of the moon,

the golden apples of the sun

the silver apples of the moon,

the golden apples of the sun.

Also, in a corner, is M F K Fisher, and she is saying:

"milk toast" and "love apples."

Then also there is very heavy pale green drapery, and a smell of dried roses.  There is also a chattery group of mice, that are saying things in very high, very squeaky voices; saying things like this:

Don't forget!  Don't forget!  Make cookies!  Make cookies!  Call your Mom, call your Mom!  And, get those little scraps of poetry gathered up!

All of this, just to ask you if you think we ought to try, after hearing it used as a derogation* for 50 years, to actually make Milk Toast?  I think I will try it, but first I will have to get some milk, because there isn't any, so that means it will be huevos rancheros for dinner instead, but my day of Milk Toast for supper will come.  And, I think I will get the cookies made, too.

Huevos Rancheros

It's a no-recipe recipe, which as you know, is very now, very of the moment.  Pour a little oil in a sauce pan with a lid.  Heat it to low.  Pour about 1/2 inch or so of red (or green!) salsa, or enchilada sauce into the pan, crack eggs into it, spacing them a few inches apart.  Cover the eggs with some cheese- jack is nice, so is fontina.  Something mild and melty.  Put the lid on the pan and let the eggs poach in the salsa.  When the eggs are opaque, it is done, and you may serve it with tortillas or refried beans or both.  Sour cream is nice, too, if you have it on hand.

Tartine's Shortbread Cookies.

* Milquetoast.