Baby BEET.
Not baby FEET, as someone thought I wrote on my meal plan post. Although they are tasty!
Not BEEF, as people thought I wrote on Twitter, and immediately had several heart attacks apiece.
Beet. Beetroot. Baby ones. Delicious little balls of sweet, vinegary goodness.
I hated beetroot for years, or at least thought I did. I thought it tasted like dirt. I ate it again once a while ago and was all "oh my god, what the hell was I thinking, this is amazing!". What an idiot.
Recently I was reading James' Bleubird Vintage blog (I die, I die, I DIE, that blog is a masterpiece of gorgeousness), and she was talking about being obsessed with pickled beets. And I immediately wanted to eat a whole jar.
Then Miss Magnetoboldtoo posted a picture on Instagram of a salad roll she was having for dinner that had enough beetroot on it to ground a small aircraft. I went to the store and bought the biggest can of baby beets I could find.
Then I chopped them in quarters, eating more than I care to admit, threw them on some mixed lettuce with chickpeas and feta, drizzled the lot in red wine vinegar and olive oil, and sprinkled with salt and freshly-ground black pepper.
Then ran outside in the afternoon light and crawled around on the ground trying to get a picture of how gorgeous the beets were before they bled into the feta and it looked like a beetroot bloodbath. How I restrained myself from eating the whole thing before dinner, I'll never know. Perhaps it was the second can I bought to snack on. That's normal, right?
