Everything was burning yesterday evening. For the most part, in the best way.
First, I roasted the two bunches of beets–chioggia and golden–and some of the juice oozed out of the foil onto the cookie sheet. The whole house smelled of burned beet slime. The result of roasting, however, was delicious: warm beet salad dressed lightly with vinaigrette, sprinkled with chives, salt, and pepper, and covered with crumbled local goat cheese.
My parents’ best friends, the Ashleys, came down the steep driveway from their house for dinner. Dad mixed martinis and mojitos (for different people–we didn’t mix). We sat in the sun on the deck. The tiki torches were flaming. We snacked on corn chips and hummus, and the tender, nutty Cobb Hill cheese named Ascutney Mountain (for the Green mountain just south of here).
Along with a colorful salad made from our farmers’ market haul, we had sweet corn on the cob from Killdeer Farm, and those sausages from Hogwash Farm–Beer Bratwurst and Chorizo–which promptly caught on fire when Dad put them on the grill. We moved them around, and the flames gave chase (it always cracks me up when baseball announcers use that phrase!). In the end, there were some spots of char, but not too many, and the sausages were succulent.
This pyromeal was followed by a campfire, up on the hillside behind the Ashleys’ house, at their well-used fire pit. The grown-ups nursed our drinks and constructed perfectly melted s’mores, while the boys torched marshmallows, pinecones, leftover Christmas candles, anything that would burn.
A good time was had by all.
The Roving Locavore 