Sunday Exodus

This past Sunday was spent fleeing the burning wreckage of my undergraduate theater company's 15th anniversary reunion. As I was the getaway driver, I was careful not to marinate my liver too thoroughly the night before. I woke up a lot less hung-over than I did on Saturday, but that didn't make Sheetz breakfast any less appropriate.
Smonster. How grotesque. How abusive. Two pillows of eggstuff, two sausage patties, two helpings of cheese, smooshed into one biscuit. I take mine with ketchup. They put your stomach where it needs to be to soak up unwanted juices and then slough the whole pile away on little greasy ice skates. I also had a chicken biscuit and a hash brown for good measure.

That swillpile held me up for the better part of the day. I didn't eat again till dinner, when I had the great fortune to have one of my oldest friends and his boyfriend over for dinner. Dinner was a bed of langostino risotto nestling a bread bowl of mushroom-potato soup.

The soup was very vegetarian and made from scratch. I'd made the soup stock last week and had some set asside for this particular soup. There were criminis, portabellas and black forrest mushrooms in the mix along with potatoes to lend weight to the broth. The breadbowl soaked most of the moisture out of the soup though, leaving it more of a herbed mushroom puree that was nonetheless very satisfying with our cold winter winds wipping around the windows. We finished the soup with a healthy splash of madeira to help ward off the chill.
The risotto was designed more to provide rich, long-lasting insulation rather than an immediate injection of boozy warmth. Though I did use a little barley sochu (a light Japanese grain alcohol) in the earlier stages of cooking the rice, the key feature here was the creamy finish layered with more floral herbs to match the langostinos' own natural perfumes.
Both dishes sported a fairly complex set of aromas while still qualifying as hearty winter fare. The supple curves of the langostino, simmered in the vegetable stock infused with dried chantrelles, danced lithely around a bright melody of taragon and oregano supported by the warm tones of creamy carrots and shallots. The soup was much more trim in terms of texture, owing much of it's character to the delicate flesh of stewed mushroom caps, but boasted an aroma like a deeply stained plank of walnut, woody and dark revealing layers with careful inspection. The black forrest mushrooms alone give off the most seductive musk that I pause everytime I use a few just to breathe in the soul of them as it insinuates it's way out of their plastic bag.
Both dishes, being balanced in and of themselves, still complimented each other very well. All they might have wanted for was a little bit of salt. A dash or two of adobo seasoning and there was no room left for desert, except, of course, for finishing the bottle of madeira.