Ode to Garlic

I freaking love garlic. I'm one of those peeps who can peel back a raw clove and pop-it like candy. I prefer the roasted variety, spread in a huge chunks across toasted, olive oil drenched bread, but seriously, is there a bad way to consume garlic?

*crickets chirping*

See, I thought not.

I don't remember the exact moment I realized how glorious this ingredient really was, but I do recall turning my nose up in my younger years. How. Dare I. It is a grown-up taste, however - a little bit sweet, a whole lot pungent - it's as if the universe is saving something for our older age, a delightful taste worth waiting for.

Perhaps my first real experience that taught me garlic should be celebrated occurred at the infamous Stinking Rose restaurant in Beverly Hills. This is not a foodie mecca, and I really didn't adore my dishes, but the way they showcased this often neglected gem made me gleeful. It was the first time I had straight-up roasted garlic, and I flipped over the flavor. So I'm grateful for the epiphany, I just haven't returned.

There's a huge garlic patch near Gilroy, California that I pass on the road to San Francisco. It's a borderline repulsive smell - I think if I wasn't aware that garlic was responsible, it would make me gag (no, I'm not a vampire). But there's something so regal and perfect about that damn veggie, I must pay homage. Every time I roll on through, the windows are down, deep breaths are coming in waves, and I'm drooling over thoughts of a garlicky feast.

Speaking of which, this recipe for Baked Garlic with Roquefort and Rosemary looks kick ass. Let's make some tonight, stay in with some wine, and watch a film, shall we? Great. See you at 8.