Eastside Road, September 10, 2015—ANOTHER UNBEARABLY HOT day, when we thank whoever the god of refrigerators might be there's still a container of pesto. Hmmm. Maybe each refrigerator, like each spring, has its own dryad, or naiad, or whatever the appropriate term might be. I would like to think that. The sprite in charge of our refrigerator, a relatively small but still inefficient Kenmore we inherited from Cook's sainted mother on her death, at 84, in 1997; I still think of her every time I open its door; that sprite must be either somewhat confused and troubled or, on the other hand, supremely gifted in the departments of keeping-track-of-things and not-really-caring-that-much. Both, I'd prefer to think.
In any case, there it was, a small plastic container crammed with pesto, which we spooned out much more generously than usual on our hard tedious penne, of a brand I really don't care for but forms a staple (as you know, loyal reader) in our pantry. There was still a little left, and we spread it on slices of bread, to have with the green salad.
Rosé, as yesterday☛Restaurants visited in 2015 are listed at Eatingday's Restaurants