Sleepy Sunday

Only two things were accomplished yesterday:  a good nap and a good dinner.  Sundays are made for napping, it's almost obligatory.  Even the race at Talladega, home of the "Big One" (crash), wasn't enough to keep my eyes open.  It's a 500-mile race and I'll bet I slept through 250.  The commentators were becoming frantic, trying to keep interest alive as they promised viewers that the "big one" was coming.  Even though the finish was under a yellow flag, the "big one" never came.  Restrictor plates have slowed speed and force a different style of driving at Talladega from the bad old days when multi-car crashes killed drivers.  I appreciate the safety factor, and I enjoyed the nap.

Aubergines (the gussied-up name for eggplant) are members of the Nightshade family, as are potatoes and tomatoes.  My children, gourmets though they be, consider eggplant by any name to be from the Deadly Nightshade group and make gagging sounds at the mere mention.  I like eggplant, always have, but I've eaten enough eggplant recently to give my skin a purplish tinge (I'm convinced of that).  Of the four Craig gave me, the first one was simply breaded and fried.  The next two went into eggplant parmesan, enough for meals for a week.  The last one sat on the counter.  I gave brief thought to feeding it to the chickens, but no, I would not waste it so.  But how to fix it?  I put slices drizzled with olive oil in the oven and sauteed onion and garlic while penne rigate cooked.  Deglazing the pan with white wine, I added diced, soft eggplant slices, peas, and cream, salt, pepper, and a few red chile flakes, let the sauce reduce and poured in the drained penne.  A sprinkle of parmesan and, ta da!

That's enough accomplishment on a Sunday.