Unfortunately for Marcus, my friends, immediate family, and strangers who sit too close to me on the Metro, I heart garlic. Most dishes that come out of my kitchen include generous applications. I would like to say that I eat garlic because of the health benefits, but I don't. I eat it because I like the taste. I know: garlic stinks. It gives you dragon breath and the tang oozes out of your pores, leaving you smelling like Pepe la Pew. People complain. They move away from you.
This may sound wicked, but instead of reducing the amount of garlic I eat, I think we should all sign a compact to eat more garlic. If everyone is eating garlic in equal proportions, then we all reek of it. Marcus doesn't agree with my compact idea. Apparently, neither does Monica Belluci. I don't want to end up a stinky pariah, so I avoid garlic when it appears prudent.
Recently, though, my friend Jen brought me a bulb of garlic straight from her garden. She planted, cultivated, and harvested this beauty with her own hands, and I wanted to celebrate it by making it a headliner.
So I cut the top off (about 10 percent of the way down on the bulb), drizzled it with olive oil, wrapped it in tin foil, and roasted it for 40 minutes at 425 degrees. So simple. So good.
I drizzled olive oil on toasted bread, spread the roasted garlic like butter on the toast, and sprinkled kosher salt on top. Hello garlic.
