They’re up there, in the top of the pantry. Loved only a little, and then only occasionally; otherwise, forgotten. I mean prunes.
The ones I found this morning were probably a year old. Dried up, withered and hard, they looked like minor asteroids. I had an idea.
Not an original idea, it should be said. Tizi and I have found a new restaurant in Rimini, thanks to our friends Adele and Luigi. They go to Montecavallo for the pizza. The first night we went with them, we saw deboned rabbit with prunes on the menu. It was love at first bite.
At 8:00 a.m. this past Sunday morning I bought a two-pound Boston Butt Roast, no bone, at a local market, with no particular idea of what to do with it. Then prunes came to mind.
To increase surface area, I lay the roast open with a knife. In olive and garlic, generously salted and peppers, dusted with dill, the meat browns for a few minutes on each side. Then half a cup of white wine. Then a handful of fresh rosemary. And prunes, 15-20 of those tough buggers. The roast cooks covered, turned a few times.
In three hours the prunes plump up and give their sweetness to the mix. I wonder: Why haven’t I done this before? Because the prunes are out of sight, out of mind.
Remember the prunes.
