Spontaneous Sunday Bruschetta

Spontaneous Sunday Bruschetta

I love to cook.  You know that.  But there are so many things I have to cook, for columns, that I really relish opportunities like I had this morning.  It was early on a lazy Sunday, and I got to putter around the supermarket, and just see what looked good, what I felt like, what made me hungry.  As the sky was blue and the trees billowy and grassy and leafy; I wanted something light, fresh, crisp.  The cherry tomatoes were ruddy and blushing, like fat little children’s cheeks bursting with excitement.  I found a crusty loaf of peasant bread, some sweet basil and shallots, and just made a big pile of bruschetta.

I cut up the tomatoes and set them to marinate with coarse salt and cracked black pepper, scissored up basil and razor-thin rings of sweet-sharp shallots, glugs of olive oil and just a soupcon of balsamic vinegar.  It was fresh and savory and sweet piled on the thick slabs of crispy toasted bread, and all of the ingredients are just beginning to be delicious again.  There is nothing more humble or satisfying than good bread and vegetables (although, I know technically, tomatoes are a fruit).  But there’s also something tremendously satisfying about being selfish in the kitchen and feeding that thing inside of you that wants what it wants.  Luckily, everyone else loved it too.