Something to ponder

During these dark days of winter, in this quiet time between Christmas and New Year's, it's nice to have a weighty philosophical question to consider.

If you had to choose, would you pick the slices of roast duck to eat right away, or a container full of rendered duck fat, for use in bringing glossy ducky dishes for months (OK, maybe weeks) to come?

Grande Fatbomb Italiana

Last night we headed down to the beach in our town for our annual pilgrimage to that celebration of fat and sugar, the local Grande Festa Italiana. They've got all the seedy carnival rides that make you wonder about inspection certificates and general liability policies, even as it's kind of thrilling to ride up on the Ferris wheel, bumper cars, you know, that sort of thing.

But the real purpose of going to the carnival is to eat all the horrible stuff that you aren't supposed to enjoy eating any more, but will never disappear because it's effing awesome. I speak, of course, of the corn dogs, the steak and mozzarella sandwiches on garlic bread, the candy apples, the blooming onions, the giant platters of red-sauced Italian dishes at the Sons of Italy tent, and of course, the greatest pleasure of all, fried dough, here in the form of the zeppole.

We limited ourselves to one bag for three of us, but it was hard, I tell you. If I'd gotten near the cappuccino/espresso tent, I am certain I would have been forced to get another bag. Not to mention the funnel cakes. And the "fried oreo zeppole," god help me.

In Which I Confirm An Age-Old Truth

Never tiring in my quest to make vegetables, well, interesting, I hauled out the roasting pan and threw in a headsworth of cauliflower florets. A couple teaspoons of olive oil, salt and pepper, and a 475 degree oven later, I had deliciously browned healthy vegetable chunks that miraculously smelled like French fries. But wait! what these bad boys needed was a good sprinkling of grated Parmesan cheese and another minute under the broiler, and suddenly I found myself pounding back a meal's worth of hot vegetable goodness with my fingers. A couple nights later, I did it again, this time with a whole bunch of asparagus.

The key principle here, and one I ignore at my peril, is the time-tested truth that Fat is the Best Tasting Thing.