feeding the reindeer

Chapter 01: one large eggplant
Chapter 02: garlic roasted potatles
Chapter 03: ngredients
Chapter 04: pasta con fungi
Chapter 05: you do your cornmeal

"Eggplants confound me," Flora muses. "So dense, yet so dry, until you salt them."

Meanwhile, weepy cucumbers will shed water at any price, far too willingly.

"I'm surprised to hear you call them eggplants. I'd have thought it was aubergines, for you."

Gala's right, but Flora's taking a break from her educational duties right now and calling the fruit by the color of its skin: eggplant is a deep, cool, navy-flavored color, while aubergine provides eyes a regal vestige of heliotrope.

"We just need one good one," she says, testing each for soft spots and dullness or wrinkles.

"Just one?"

"Well, it's only the two of us. Unless you're especially hungry?"

"Mincing garlic may be a chore, but it's always my favorite part of cooking. Anything."

Their current task is mincing four or five pungent allium bulbs for storage in oil, which makes a pointless contradiction to Flora's statement: if the garlic is already prepared, then she can't mince it, no matter what she's cooking, and get the scent all over her fingers - a much better place for it than your teeth and tongue.

For her part, Gala is starting to understand the constant debate on the best way to peel garlic, since her fingers are starting to slip past the same flap of papery skin repeatedly, refusing to reveal cloven goodness.

"You don't like pickles, Gala?"

There's a wicked glint in Flora's eye that's not often - but not never - seen. However, the question is asked perfectly calmly. For a moment, Gala can't decide whether to respond in kind with the inflection or the infectious.

"Nope!" she replies, turning up her nose with exaggerated disdain. "They make even the crispest other vegetables soggy, and they make my lips pucker."

Before Gala can tack on any extra reasons to bolster her flimsy case, Flora has snatched the spear up and bitten into it with a crunch that defies and belies all reputation of the briney specimen to fall limp and lame by the wayside.

"What about mushrooms?"

The fact of the thing is that mushrooms are not real plants, nor even alive. They don't grow so much as spread, and degrade lignin instead of evolving into it. If you want protein, you're just as well served with legumes, and if you want a meaty texture...well, maybe you're better off not being a vegetarian. Versatility they've got, certainly, but at what cost?

The spirit of the thing, though, is that mushrooms are adorable and characteristic of someone like Gala. All shapes and sizes, each one quainter than the last but nowhere near as much as the next.

Says Gala proudly, "I consider them my shroomfies."

"Which way for polenta - runny or crispy?"

Of course, each preparation has its own appeal. A porridge-like consistency can be so comforting, provided you add enough butter and cheese. Well, olive oil, that is. To be more traditional. But fried polenta can be a vehicle for so many other things, including the earthy taste of char and grill marks.

"It depends on the time of day, I suppose," Gala answers hesitantly. Flora's questions are incisive yet broad, so why not take the open end?

"Say, lunchtime."

"And the season."

"Autumn - or fall, if you prefer."

"...and how I'm feeling."

Flora grasps her hands, a warming winter breeze. "Oh, wonderful, I hope!"