I make supper a lot. Like, practically every single night, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year, year in and year out. Yadda-yadda-yadda, ad nauseum, so on and so forth. The meals are basic and earthy, intended to be well-balanced, fill bellies, please as many tongues as possible, use up the ingredients I have on hand, and be plentiful enough to provide leftovers. They’re meals that I whip up and smack down, BAM.

Last night’s supper, on the other hand, was thoughtfully crafted, each dish chosen (as I strolled through an upscale grocery earlier that day) to balance against the others. The ingredients were expensive (by my standards, as well as the rest of the world’s) yet simple, requiring only minimal embellishment.

Here’s what we ate: lettuce leaves dressed with lemon-olive oil-honey dressing and topped with slices of juicy pear and creamy brie, jasmine rice cooked in chicken broth, oven-roasted shallots, grilled salmon ($19.99 a pound—yikes! [but I got ten bucks off]) with lemon butter, fresh sourdough baguettes (one with seeds and one without), Kahlua-spiked chocolate pots de crème capped with whipped cream, and, for me only, a glass of red wine.

Dinner (not “supper,” you’ll notice) was an unusually leisurely affair. Afterward, bellies stuffed, the kids ran off to play and Mr. Handsome and I retired (not “moved”) to the living room, him to the recliner, me the the green sofa where I curled up cozy-like, my feet tucked under me.

Mr. Handsome attempted to tell me about his day—I had asked, after all—but it proved pointless. I was hyped up on good food and could think of nothing else.

I caught bits and pieces of what he said, though. There was something about a water heater, a cabin, and a muddy hole that kept filling back in with water, to which I smiled vaguely and said, “Those shallots—weren’t they just incredible? So simple, too. Just roasted with a little balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Nothing to them, really.”

“Yes,” he said. “They were good.” And then he mentioned something about wiring a basement. “If anyone hammers a nail there, they’ll get electrocuted, but oh well,” he chuckled.*

“That salmon, wow,” I amicably replied. “I just popped it on the grill and then topped it with the lemon butter. It was soooo good.”

“Mm, yes. It was good,” he said, and then in yet another valiant attempt to change the subject, “I was listening to NPR about that Florida preacher—”

“Don’t even talk about it.” I said firmly, sitting straight up and punching the air with my wine glass. “It makes me mad just thinking about it!”

Suddenly exhausted, I slumped back against the sofa. “Brie,” I said dreamily. “Brie is amazing, don’t you think? So … creamy. And I got it for a good price, I’ll have you know. There’s a whole bunch leftover, too. I’ll be living on brie and pears.” I sighed happily. “Brie and pears—they were meant for each other.”

Mr. Handsome finally surrendered. “Brie is delicious. The salmon was delicious. Everything was delicious. It was an amazing dinner, hon. Totally amazing.”

Grilled Salmon with Lemon Butter
Adapted from Epicurious

Substitute lime for the lemon, if you wish. There will be leftover lemon butter, which they say is excellent over chicken. I imagine it would also be good tossed with pasta and broccoli and some shavings of Parmesan…

1 pound salmon
salt and pepper
1 teaspoon lemon zest
4-6 tablespoons lemon butter (recipe follows)

Salt and pepper the salmon. Preheat your grill. Oil the rack. Grill the salmon for about 4 minutes on each side (keep the grill lid closed), or until it registers 155 degrees when pierced with a meat thermometer. Transfer the salmon to a platter and sprinkle with the lemon zest. Scoop some tablespoons (start with four and go from there) of lemon butter on the top and serve. Pass the extra lemon butter.

For the lemon butter:
8 tablespoons butter, melted
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1 clove garlic, minced
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black pepper

In the jar of a blender, combine the melted butter, lemon juice, garlic, salt, and pepper. Blend till frothy and smooth, about 20 seconds. Pour into a little jar and chill in the fridge. (Or, if you prefer, you can wait till the butter is cool and then shape it into a log and freeze—then you can chop off a little whenever you need it.)

Oven-Roasted Shallots
Adapted from Molly’s blog Orangette

I ate the leftovers for the next day’s lunch along with some brie, freshly baked sourdough, and pears. And then I died and went to heaven all over again.

1 pound shallots, peeled, large ones cut in half
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon olive oil
a pinch of sea salt

Put the shallots in a 9 x 9 glass pan and toss with the vinegar, oil, and salt. Cover the dish tightly with aluminum foil and bake at 400 degrees for 40 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven and turn the shallots—the bottoms should be caramel-y brown. Cover the dish and return it to the oven for another 30 minutes. Serve the shallots warm or at room temperature.

*Mr. Handsome is an exceptionally careful carpenter. He was speaking hyperbolically.

Saturday was a semi-traumatic day for my family.

1. I chopped my finger instead of the garlic.
2. The Baby Nickel got stung by a wasp. (We think that’s what it was, anyway.)
3. I deadheaded my finger while deadheading the flowers.
4. A tree branch fell on Mr. Handsome’s head.
5. Miss Beccaboo stepped on two nails simultaneously.
6. The Baby Nickel smashed his thumb with a hammer.

There were tears, band-aids, blood, ice, globs of neosporin, loud yells, and a few choice words.

We all marveled at the collective mess we had become. As Miss Beccaboo dug in the cupboard for the box of band-aids to dress yet another one of my wounds, she said, “I think I should put band-aids on all of your fingers, Mama.”

But it was a productive day, too.

1. Grapes got picked.

Mr. Handsome has a frightfully long torso. Here’s his worker-man legs…

And here’s his worker-man head, all up in the clouds.

You can’t tell from here, but he was super grumpy about picking grapes. He’s like this every year, so I don’t pay him any mind.

This little guy, on the other hand, loves picking grapes.

He shimmies right up into the arbor and hops around like a little monkey.

Considering our track record, I was fully prepared for someone to fall off the ladder and was rather surprised when no one did.

2. Snoozes were taken. (He was gearing up for the dread grape-picking job.)

3. Lawnmower lessons were given and taken.

4. And fruit-on-the-bottom baked oatmeal was discovered.

I read about the concept on Tasty Kitchen and less than twelve hours later I was pulling a pan of fruit-on-the-bottom baked oatmeal out of the oven. It smelled heavenly.

The kids, upon discovering that I had messed with the standard fare, set up a-moaning and a-wailing to beat the band. Yo-Yo was the loudest, but he shut up as soon as he tasted it, had seconds, and was disappointed when it was all gone.

It’s more a formula than a recipe: toss a bunch of fruit (I used fresh pears) with a bit of sugar (I used both white and brown) and cinnamon, scatter it over the bottom of your greased baking dish, and top with your favorite baked oatmeal recipe. I had a couple tablespoons of ground almonds left over from my twittering tarts, so I tossed them on top the oatmeal batter along with a sprinkling of demerara sugar for added crunch—delicious.

It’s a wonderfully delectable and hearty breakfast. And the best part is that it’s fortifying enough to get you through whatever the day might bring.

Thank goodness.

Fruit-on-the-Bottom Baked Oatmeal
Inspired by Tasty Kitchen

I used about six pears for this recipe, but I imagine peaches, nectarines, apricots, apples, and/or plums would be delicious, too. No doubt nuts and dried fruits would make a tasty addition, as well. The bottom (ha! a pun!) line? Do whatever you want.

4 cups fresh fruit, chopped, peeled, and cored, as needed
2 tablespoons brown sugar
2 tablespoons white sugar
1-2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 recipe baked oatmeal (enough for a 9 x 13 pan)
2 tablespoons ground almonds, optional
1-2 tablespoons demerara sugar

Grease a 9 x 13 pan. Toss the fresh fruit with the brown and white sugars and cinnamon and scatter over the bottom of the pan. Spread the baked oatmeal batter gently over the fruit, and sprinkle the ground almonds and demerara sugar on top. Bake at 350 degrees for 30-40 minutes. Serve warm with cold milk.

This same time, years previous: the big night and my artistic mother

Last week after picking up two bushels of pears from a fruit stand, I sent a tweet out into the vast cosmic void: Researching all things pear. What’s YOUR favorite way to eat the fruit (besides straight up, of course)?

Two people responded with recipes, both of which were tarts, one chocolate (thanks, Jan!) and the other almond cream (thanks, Cousin Zoe!). I made them both.

That night I told my family that they must eat some of each kind and choose their favorite. They took their orders seriously, applying their forks most industriously.

The result? They chose the almond cream, and I chose the chocolate.

Though the next day, after the almond cream had spent the night firming up in the fridge, I found myself wavering, and after splitting the last piece with Mr. Handsome this afternoon, I’ve joined the ranks of the almond cream lovers.

The almond cream tart sports an almond crust, a thin layer of cream cheese, slices of juicy pear, and a heavy dusting of cinnamon sugar that, after baking, melts into a glorious golden glaze. It’s like cheesecake, only more refined and delicate.

Almond Cream Pear Tart
From my cousin Zoe

While delicious at room temperature, this tart is best after a twelve hour rest in the fridge.

For the crust:
3 tablespoons butter
7 tablespoons (or ½ cup minus 1 tablespoon) sugar
3/4 cup flour
1/3 cup finely ground almonds
pinch of salt

Cream together the butter and sugar. Mix in the flour, ground almonds, and salt. Press the crumbs into the bottom of a 10-inch springform pan.

For the filling:
8 ounces cream cheese
3 tablespoons sugar
1 egg
1/4 t almond extract
3 pears, cored, peeled, and sliced
2 tablespoons sugar mixed with 1-2 teaspoons cinnamon

Beat together (no need to wash the beaters after using them to make the crust) the cream cheese and sugar. Add the egg and almond extract. Pour the filling over the crust. Arrange the pear slices on top of the filling. Sprinkle the cinnamon sugar over the pears.

Bake the tart at 425 degrees for 10 minutes and then reduce the oven temperature to 350 degrees and continue baking for anther 15-20 minutes. Cool the tart to room temperature before serving, or, better yet, chill it overnight in the refrigerator. As Zoe says, “It’s a long, hard wait but you’ll get through it.”

This same time, years previous: a quick rundown, spilt marbles, part II, and say cheese!