We spent a little time roasting down tomatoes yesterday for the freezer. One pan of tomatoes consisted largely of shriveled cherry Tiny Tims (useless plant; never again unless I need a six-inch specimen for a bitty pot — cute gift). After roasting, they were, of course, even more shriveled. It did not look good for running them through the food mill to extract sauce from this pan of hot tomaisins.
But, ooh, they smelled good. Not the sort of thing you'd just chuck onto the compost pile. And I said, "Why would I even want to scrape off the lovely skins and seeds? This is food."
Sometimes when the house smells insanely delicious and the roasted baby tomatoes look adorable and edible, you can't be bothered to think in an orderly, recipe-like fashion.
We slapped this stuff into a pile of pasta shells with nothing more than a couple of gratings of various cheeses. We forgot all about herbs. Salt wasn't necessary. It was just... food.
Times like that, I really like food.