I thought I’d return from my week with a post about perhaps the singlemost elaborate and expensive cultural product of a culinary bent intended for children in the history of the world. But, no. No I didn’t see Ratatouille with my family. One of my two children is thoroughly uninterested. And repeated screenings of the itunes 9 minute trailer only backfired: the fiery hazards and near drowning in the dirty dishwater sealed the deal: too scary. Too noisy. So, instead of watching this movie together as a foodie family, we’ve been hanging out, swimming, cooking, gardening, eating. Doing all those things that make us love Southern California so much. We’re tanner. Fatter. Happier. Or at least I tell myself these things as I cling to memories of the exacting verrisimilitude of a the copper pots and carmelized sauces of the trailer. And I’d bet a few of you dear readers and your families saw it over the holiday week. I bet you loved it. I’ll get there. One day. With or without the kids.
But we did do some cooking. Including our first grilled pizza of the season. I jumped the gun and bought some heirloom tomatoes at the farmer’s market, knowing they’d not yet be fully ripe and perfect. They were okay. Nicely salted, they did just fine on this pizza (note the topping-free section reserved for the pickiest of eaters). These tomatoes a bit pallid, aren’t they? But come mid summer, they’ll be perfect for salads and other no-cook preparations. By the by, all the strawberries at our market were awful for some reason: flat, unsweet, dull. But the peaches and cherries were outstanding.