M&M Revisited

I usually do my dinner-day market hopping, hunting and gathering alone. This particular Wednesday, Master was accompanying, and he even indulged me in a excursion to Milford's M&M Farms. I'd visited this sprawling produce emporium only once before, during a venture so memorable that I have begged and pleaded with every auto-owning associate for a return visit ever since. The early evening hours at M&M didn't present quite the same bedlam milieu of jostling carts and the commotive Babel of foreign clamor that I so fondly recalled, but the store was lively enough. And, while perhaps not peak season for produce, the array of offerings was impressive, with heaped bins stretching as far in every direction as one's eyes could hope to take in. If not quite as wanton as the open-air market tableaux I've envied in friends' photos, magazine spreads and foodie-baiting travel shows, they scratched the same itch. It was all mere (and momentary) distraction, however, from the narrow, crowded aisles of the Asian specialty market that lay just beyond the panorama of produce. Equally allured and repelled by a whiff of asafoetida - perceptible within moments of entering the store - I surrendered almost involuntarily to its stinky siren-like call and found myself not among the array of apples and asparagus, but entranced and drooling before the dried spices. It's a testament to the thoroughness of my pantry that I did not actually need anything here, other than a bag of whole coriander seed with which to fill the satellite jars I'd set up in Master's cupboards. And as I drifted dreamily between shelves, from spices to sauces to sweets, the mile-long wishlist I maintain mentally proved useless. All I could recall was bonito flakes, ponzu sauce and jaggery (unrefined sugar - cane, in this case. Palm remains elusive), each of which I was able to locate and snap up without much effort.

But I was here to shop for dinner. And, when I alit and rejoined Master, bagging pears and somewhat (rightly) annoyed by my tendency to wander off, I turned my attention back to provisions. Master threw me quite a curve ball by getting excited about the red beets. It's rare to see him so enthusiastic about a greengrocery item. I knew that I wanted to make polenta, maybe with a saute of mixed mushrooms. The plan could easily be adjusted to accommodate roasted beets. I picked up a few large and lovely parsnips, which would end up unused, and a quantity of small red onions. The plum tomatoes looked (and, more importantly, smelled) promising enough to be worth a chance. But the mushroom selection was limited to cellophane-wrapped packages of the standard white-and-brown button variety. How uninspiring. Moreover, there was no fresh basil, and the eggplants just weren't speaking to me. At this point, I yearned to return to the alien comforts of the jarred pickles, impenetrably labeled cans, and foil-bagged jellyfish in the specialty shop. An apple-crumb muffin from the in-store bakery restored my waning faith, being as decadently rich and buttery as I remembered. While Master checked out, I ducked into the adjacent deli for a container of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. A quick Stop & Shop run on the drive home provided basil.

When I mentioned my polenta intentions, Master insisted that I had made it for him before. I insisted that I had not. No matter how long the stirring spoon, or how high the sides of the pot, preparing polenta always proves a painful, memorable experience. The seething cornmeal slurry hisses and spits angrily, inevitably resulting in a slew of minor scaldings. Sure enough, the quick-cooking polenta - they're not kidding! - spattered as I stirred it, leaving my fingers battle-scarred. As the porridge came together, with finely-cut basil and a lusty amount of Parmesan and ground pepper, I tasted it. Yum! I proffered a sample for Master to sample. He winced, his brow creased. He did not love the texture. "It's like something that shouldn't even be food." At least he admitted that, no, I had not made polenta for him before. I gloated silently and assured him that, once it had set and was lightly fried, he'd find it much more agreeable. He looked skeptical.

Peeling roasted beets always makes the kitchen counter seem like the set of a splatter film. But they are worth the effort, and an hour at 425°F really brought out their nutty, sweet charms. The tomatoes, roasted in tandem, slipped out of their jackets as easily as exotic dancers, and they were soft enough to mash with a fork. I added both to the saute of onions and mushrooms, the beets instantly staining everything the brilliant burgundy you see above. With a little white wine and a final sprinkle of sea salt, it was ready to be set aside to free up the pan for frying the polenta. Fully set, it came out cleanly, firm and slightly slick from the oiled dish. So a brief dry fry - just enough to crisp and color the outside while leaving the inside contrastingly creamy - was all that was necessary before presentation.

To my great relief, Master enjoyed the finished polenta, pronouncing it not just food-like, but downright tasty, and felt that the beet-and-mushroom accompaniment was a great complement in both flavor and visual effect. In all, this was a fun meal, burns and all.

He did refer to the leftovers as "cornbread." He's lucky I love him so.