Garlic! How can I express my love for you? Your beauty is surpassed by no other plant; your flavor is unique, pungent and instantly recognizable. Oh, Allium sativum, I long to put you into every dish that I cook. When I’m sick, I crush your cloves and eat them raw, like a wild, congested beast. On those black days when I have no fresh, perfect heads of garlic, I weep. I weep for garlic, until I remember that I have a savior–minced garlic in a jar! I toss spoonfuls of the heavenly stuff into marinara sauces, casseroles, and stir-fries. On the bleakest days, when even the garlic jar is empty, I put on a brave face and turn to your dried cousin. Hiding in its dark, dusty corner, the garlic powder bides its crassly delicious time. I sprinkle the powder into soups and scrambled eggs with a cackle of perverted glee. I need garlic. I don’t care what form it comes in.
I’m the happiest when I can eat garlic in its truest, most beautiful form. I speak, of course, of roasted garlic. Take whole heads of garlic (I do two or three per person, but I’m excessive) and chop off the pointy tops to expose the garlic. Place the heads in a pan, splash in some water, and drizzle the exposed garlic with olive oil. Wrap the pan with foil and pop it into a 350 degree oven. After an hour or an hour and a half, the cloves have shriveled and turned golden. Inside the cloves is a treasure trove of gooey, smooth, buttery garlic. Squeeze the garlic out of the cloves, mix with a dab of olive oil and a sprinkle of sea salt, and you have a luscious paste that can be smeared on anything. It’s best spread onto slices of crusty bread, although I have been known to eat roasted garlic by the spoonful. It’s up to you. I won’t judge.
*This will probably be my only lesson. Please don’t make me teach it again.
