I had a Marry Shelley moment this weekend. Saturday night some friends and I were sitting by a darkened pool, swapping fanciful stories about the possibilities for next morning's menu. The agreed-upon foundation was donuts -- 30 of them, grilled -- but we also had an entire watermelon at our disposal, and some mint. There was leftover chuck steak from the night before, and over a dozen littlenecks. Someone had spotted eggs; I remembered bringing cucumbers. Some of the sage-lemon chicken was still uncooked. The possibilities were myriad -- some of them horrifying.
But we were feeling impulsive and brash after the adventurous smorgasboard that was our dinner, and our tall tales were getting taller. Luckily, they aired toward sweetness. Donut sandwiches. Grilled watermelon. Thought processes dovetailed. Bacon was suggested. It all happened so fast. The next morning, we stared down a plateful of the things, garnished with mint and bacon and glistening in the Hudson River Valley morning. I can honestly say it was the best monster I've ever had a hand in creating. (I'd share a picture, but my camera seems to hate me, so you'll have to use your imagination.)