I made my way, as is my wont, to the Riverbank Market in the Hutt today. Another gorgeous Wellington summer's day, and the place was packed. On my way there, I ran into the Alligator, and we got to chatting.
Turns out that, unbeknownst to me, the Alligator is a chef. Now, I'll be honest, I only met the Alligator a month or so ago, prior to Morgue's Big Day, and I must say he's a top bloke. So it was with great interest that I learned he was a man who is actually a certified professional in this food thing, whereas I am just a highly opinionated (yet open-minded, no less) amateur.
I do love meeting other foodies, and we had a brief discussion about these:
The Alligator had found them, and, thinking them to be a nectarine of some variety which he was heretofore unacquainted with, had decided to buy some and use them in some sort of flan (which he had yet to devise, but with all his chefly skills, I presume he will make a marvellous job of it).
Not to be outdone, I bought a few myself when I found them, equally perplexed as to what these curiously shaped summer fruits, that appeared to be some sort of cross between a nectarine and a very small mango, might be.
The answer: A Plum. Of exactly what variety, I can't say, but I ate one and they are definitely plums.
Now, I'm sure you'll be expecting a rundown on how I took these plums and gave them to Dessert Chef (since I'm really no good at flans and other desserty stuff, really), and what a delicious dish we made to rival the masterwork that the Alligator would surely produce, but sadly, it is not to be.
I bought nice ripe ones, and by the time I got home, they had somehow got squashed. So we ate them just the way nature intended, and they were delicious.
Assuming they weren't some bizarre GE crop, that is.
Do I have a point? Yes, I do. Would someone please give the Alligator a job, already?
Hailing from the beautiful Pacific Northwest of the US, the Alligator has in mind to start a business over here which is close to my heart (but which I can't reveal for fear of some big corporate stealing it from him - yes, I know you're out there!), but he needs to get a foothold in NZ to be able to stay and realise this vision, and to do that he needs a job. So, someone, please employ a Chef with long rows of pearly white teeth who spends his days lying in warm mud waiting for unwary birds to come to rest in his mouth. There'll be no shortage of skewered poultry kebabs, thats for sure.
And while we're talking about the market, I thought I'd water your mouths with a taste of the goodies I picked up there today.
And what better place for delicious fresh watermelon, than tossed through a cool garden salad with fresh mint and olives?