I'm sitting here at the end of the night, and my fingers thin coated in butter. The sour, sweet, cheesy, milky scent is unmistakable. Washing has no effect -- even in scented soap -- five minutes later the milk laden fat smell comes through. My parents would not approve.
I've had the most unbalanced dinner imaginable. A loaf of french bread, freshly reheated in the oven (450 for 10 minutes, wetted down first to render a crispy crust), and almost a quarter of a pound of fresh Plugra butter. To enjoy with it, a half bottle of Pinot Noir. Heck, it could have been any wine. Look, I went for Indian Buffet for lunch. I had rice. Lamb. Chicken. Sauces. Chickpeas. More food than one should really have. Time for something -- simple. Uh. Light. Sure.
Arriving home, finding a loaf of bread and reanimating it in the oven. Ah. The butter. Can you get Plugra where you live? I can. In fact, Trader Joe's (a semi-local chain) sells Plugra for less than more boring butter from supermarkets. It is more fat laden. It's real butter, the kind you can smell throughout the house when it is being melted, sauteed with, or baked. It is butter that is in fact a food, not an ingredient. And, as these things go, a cheap indulgence.
But first let it come to room temperature. Soften. Spread it upon the soft white centers of bread with shatteringly crisp exteriors. As you close your mouth you can taste the butter before it is even in your mouth. And then, the taste spreads in hurried speed over all sides of your cheeks. My. Dear. God. In. Heaven.
Crazy? Drunk? Neh. Not I -- not drunk on ethenol. Drunk on butter. For I am truely, The Butter Pig.
Posted by dowdy at January 13, 2003 09:16 PM