Back in the summer of 1989 I had graduated from college and after a slight mishap with some carefully laid plans, I was catapulted back to my parents’ home for a few months. It was during that time I took refuge in my mother’s kitchen. In fact, there were weeks when I didn’t leave their house even to go to “town” to the local Whole Foods, ahem, I mean, Wal-Mart. And if you ever stepped foot in that town, you would certainly understand why. But that’s a story for a completely different blog which, as my favorite third-cousin-once-removed, Mary Myles Mathers McQuiddly, would have said in her thick drawl, “might could” be titled: “That Which Does Not
Kill Us, Bore Us, Makes us Stronger” or “How I Got Out, Stayed Out and Am Never Going Back.” You get the idea.
Anyways, in that putrid summer of 400%+ humidity levels and temps hovering in the triple digits, I cooked to relieve stress, budding alcoholism and to fend off sinking into a pit of massive depression all while trying to figure out Plan B.
It was during that time, despite the oppressive heat, I discovered the joys of roasting whole heads of garlic. Fast forward now, gulp, nearly 30 years and I’m still making it, and thank Goddess not in my parents’ town. I make it whenever I can’t think of anything else to serve for an appetizer, or when I have vegans coming over, or when I need to eat massive amounts of garlic (And NO, I have no clue if roasted garlic is nearly as nutritional as raw garlic, so all you haters just go find someone else to pick on), or when I want to round out a night of just eating what we refer to as a “Mezze Dinner,” or quite simply when I just want to nibble on a loaf of crusty French bread with olive oil, roasted garlic, whilst enjoying a bottle of wine.