Our daughter, Rachel, likes to cook and she loves to try out new recipes. She is, by the way, a fabulous cook. Much more inspired than I have ever been. So it is no surprise that tonight we dined on Bouillabaisse that would have done my Grandmother proud. (My Grandmother was an amazing cook. To the day she died, she spoke with a slight Canadian French accent and most of the time, she would still throw her pronouns to the end of her sentences... In fact, during my husband's first visit to their house she asked him, "You want another piece of pie, you?" Of course, in my grandparents house, that was a rhetorical question as the piece of pie would already be lying on your plate before the question was completed. Something I had never thought to warn my husband about because that's just the way it had always been for all of my life. By the time we left, he was more stuffed than the turkey.)
While the Bouillabaisse was delicious, her father questioned her about the garlic she had used in the recipe after he ate almost an entire clove in one spoonful.
Husband, "What did the recipe say about preparing the garlic?"
Rachel, "It said to crush the cloves of garlic and add it to the pot."
Husband, "You might have crushed it's dreams or hurt it's feelings... possibly even spoke harshly to it before you added the garlic, but I don't think that was the intended method the recipe called for."
Rachel, "I thought you liked garlic."
Husband, "I do like garlic, but I normally like it dead first."
QOTD: "You can never have enough garlic. With enough garlic, you can eat the New York Times." ~ Morley Safer