Here’s how my best Cornish pasty came out this year:

It looks like some kind of strange creature, doesn’t it?

Every year it’s the same thing: I really get the hang of the crimping part as I’m making the final pasty. I noticed while looking at other pasty pictures on Flickr (note: just using the tag “pasty” is not the way to go) that many people crimp their pasties on the side, not the top, and Laurie reminded me that most of the pasties we bought in Cornwall shops a few years ago were like that. I think they look too much like calzones when they’re crimped on the side.

Which reminds me, I could really go for some homemade calzones.

As Iris might put it, I just love parsnips. Yesterday we got an auspicious-looking bunch of skinny ones at the University Farmers Market, and I tossed them with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and roasted them for about half an hour until the tips were crunchy and the rest soft and lightly browned. They were as good as French fries.

Parsnips–which should really be called “sneeps,” the way Scots called turnips “neeps”–are heinously inconsistent. They don’t keep very well but don’t show their age much, either. Sometimes they have a woody core, sometimes not. If I see a slender, just-picked bunch, small enough not to need peeling, I’ll buy it, but often I want parsnips when such a bunch is not to be had. In that case I’ll usually slice them into coins and saute them with bacon; a little chewiness is okay in this format.

Last night’s parsnips were the side for [shrimp and grits with tomatillo sauce](https://www.rootsandgrubs.com/2006/11/26/tomatillo-duo/); I’ll be raving about this dinner for a while.

Today in the Seattle Times I have an article about enchiladas:

Resurrecting a Recipe

I think this is the best recipe I’ve ever published. I had very little to do with it. The original idea (stacked green enchiladas on top of spicy beans) comes from the late Barbacoa restaurant in Seattle, and the specifics come from Robb Walsh and Rick Bayless. These enchiladas are so good that I’ve made them at least twice since finishing the article, which is unheard of. Iris’s favorite part is the crunchy cheese around the edges. When Laurie saw the photo, she said, “Hey, crunchy cheese porn.” You also end up with leftover beans for lunch. If you like enchiladas, please try this recipe.

In other tomatillo-related news, last night I made the shrimp and grits recipe from The Lee Bros Southern Cookbook. I’m sure there’s nothing remotely traditional about tomatillo sauce on shrimp and grits, but a little tomatillo improves everything. I’m tempted to use the word “slurpy.” This morning over French toast, Iris sighed and said, “I just love grits.”

I think it’s good for you to eat something anachronistic on a regular basis. You don’t have to delve all the way into the Gallery of Regrettable Food, but baked ziti wouldn’t hurt.

That was my justification, at least for having steak and eggs for breakfast this morning.

After making the traditional Thanksgiving Cornish pasties, there was half a rib-eye steak left over. I know, cutting a rib-eye steak into chunks and cooking them well-done inside a pastry crust is wrong. It hurts me as much as it hurts you. But I’ve tried other cuts of meat and they don’t work as well, and it’s only once a year.

I seared the steak last night and reheated it this morning while I made the scrambled eggs. The best way to reheat steak, I’ve found, is the one I learned from reading Robert Wolke in the Washington Post. I sliced the steak and put it in a Ziploc bag, then ran hot water over it from the sink for a few minutes. It’s hot enough to warm the steak but not hot enough to cook it further.

Steak and eggs is notable for the way the eggs act as a buttery sauce. I think a steak and egg sandwich would be brilliant. Apparently it’s a menu item at Subway, which strikes me as less than brilliant. It’s also a former menu item at Dunkin’ Donuts–do you suppose it was served on a split glazed donut?