The end of a stale loaf of artisanal bread.
The bottom of a jar of sun dried tomatoes.
The last sliver of a pack of prosciutto.
The final handful of grated mozzarella.
The leftover chopped tops of wilted parsley and fennel.
The blistering flame of a preheated broiler.
The dinner that came out of virtually nothing.
—Hugh
If Wallace Stevens wrote a recipe, this would be it.