Penance

I didn't think S. Africa could make up for all that vuvuzela buzzing; after all, it's been months since the tournament, and I still get nightmares that I'm being chased through Dupont Circle by a cloud of locusts.


But after Sunday night's BBQ, I'm willing to call it even. Once again, my Greek South African-born friend Tanya set up a grill on her balcony and challenged the neighboring steakhouse for the best aromas in the NW. As if the Boerewors were not enough, Tanya also served up some pesto, fresh corn, fruity salad, and a vegetarian chili called chakalaka. (There was also a medley of desserts, but in my excitement to chew the fat with Tanya's Ivorian, Brazilian and Nigerian dinner guests, I may have accidentally refilled my plate one too many times before dessert was served.)

Just a squirrel, trying to get a (pistachio) nut

I keep eying the pistachios at Harris Teeter, lured by some strange, deep-seated desire to attempt a pistachio pesto or freaky, green tapenade. Alas, I ended up chopping plain old pine nuts last night with the basil, garlic and Parmesan.




I was not much more creative the other night with my eggplant, red bell pepper penne, but at least I roasted the vegetables instead of sauteing them, a minor, but tasty twist. The minor and not-so-tasty twist for my caesar salad? I squeezed every last drop of juice from half a lemon, and no amount of olive oil, crushed black pepper or mayo could rescue me.




Now these actually were a bit creative, and not because of some tragic, lemon accident. The latkes my mother-in-law fried up in our kitchen mixed potatoes with yams.