When a recipe blithely tells you not to worry too much about how much stuff you are making as it will all keep for a week or so in the fridge you know you are storing up trouble ahead.
So it has come about with the harissa sauce I made two weeks ago.
There was plenty left over and I dutifully ladled into a pot and covered it with a thin layer of olive oil and put it to the back of the fridge. It has been there ever since. A dark, red, fiery presence. A blot on the conscience. It has been counting down the weeks until it develops a thin layer of mound and has to be thrown away. Last week I came across a pot of creme fraiche, use by date sometime in August, that had mould growing so thick and black it was pushing open the lid. ‘This could be me’, the harissa has been saying, ‘unless you pull your finger out and do something with me’.
That is all well and good for the harissa to say but it ignores the fact that it was, is, so hot and fiery that no one else in the family has the stomach for it. All this is compounded by the fact I made it with the two handfuls of chillies I was able to harvest from the garden.
This evening I had a go at it smeared over a small chicken that was roasted for an hour. It was still fiery and hot which may be sufficient for a troubling nights sleep.
We listened The National and got high on cheerleaders.