It wasn't on purpose, but this is my second Donna Deane recipe in one week. And I can think of nothing further to say about this. So! We're starting off nicely, aren't we. This doesn't bode well. The aforementioned apartment hunting, my out-of-town visitors, preparation for non-blog-related professional activities, and the lack of any and all peace and quiet threatens to render me into an inarticulate jumble of limbs, whimpering for mercy. Got a spare basement? I'd like to lock myself in there for a few hours, please.
It's a good thing I got some cooking in last weekend, because I wasn't able to concoct a single thing all week, what with demonstrating how to eat bulgogi, and going to book parties and gnawing my cuticles over wee little Sasha Cohen (I show my guests a good time, yes I do). And oh! I had a tea with the lovely Shauna. She gave me some much-needed giggles, and isn't it just great when someone you don't know but you think you do turns out to be even better than you thought she would be? Fantastic.
That wild-looking meal up there (the contrast between the white-fleshed halibut and the sanguine-colored sauce is bringing up some heretofore unexamined associations that I'm not willing to delve into here) was quite nice. I baked a few fillets of halibut that had been briefly marinated in thyme, oil, garlic and grapefruit juice. For the sauce I simmered together more grapefruit juice, blood orange juice, and sauteed shallots. When the mixture had reduced to a syrupy sauce, I whisked in a few lumps of cold butter. This classical French preparation was delicious, but far too rich for my taste. If you like buttery sauces or want a striking plate for a dinner party, this is a perfect recipe to use.
And on that note, I'm sailing off into the weekend, preparing myself for a week in which I will no longer be using Ben's camera for my blog photographs because he's going on vacation, lucky dog, and leaving me with a perfectly gorgeous substitute, but since I'll miss him and I hate change and I need sleep and did I mention the jumble of whimpering limbs I threaten to become any minute now, I'm convinced that my photos next week will be glaring eyesores that will render this blog utterly and totally unreadable. Happy travels, darling! Oh, and I'll be raising a glass to my father who turns 60. Hip hip!