How about, for a change of pace, a recipe? With seventy-five million online – or nine billion, depending how you count – one more can’t hurt.

Call our dish Casserole Chou-fleur. Google located one by that name and a Gratin de chou-fleur, but neither rival mine in either savor or savoir-faire. I found a Cauliflower Casserole (Loaded Style) on Wholesome Yum, somewhat comparable, but its author’s gush too gee-whiz to stomach. “This cheesy loaded side dish is my go-to for weeknight dinners, potlucks, and even holidays…” (Cheesy? Go-to? Potlucks?)

Fair warning: since I never read recipes – or instructions of any sort – I don’t know how to write them. This aversion is pathological. Try telling me what to do and watch my temperature spike and neck-hairs bristle. I trace this aversion to my childhood where there were rules for everything and spontaneity was heresy. I’ll find my own way through life, thank you, even at the cost of being lost.

As the designated food provider in our three-person household (puppy Henry’s a person, appearances notwithstanding), food’s ever on my mind. I need to stock for seven menus daily – three breakfasts, two lunches, two dinners – and prepare six (breakfast for me and Henry, lunch for me and Jane, Jane and my dinner (our main meal) and Henry’s dinner, which he mostly sniffs at for some reason). Craving both affection and nutrition, I take these duties seriously. I do not like to cook but to be liked and to eat. (“The brighter the star, the less troublesome the way” – an old Chinese adage I just made up.)

This “weeknight”, in Miz Tacky’s lingo, I’d somehow forgotten to shop for. I have my excuses but they’re inedible. The trick now was to recharacterize my omission as affectionate forethought. Jane is grateful for whatever I cook, bless her, but I want her always to feel special, which she is.

So what did we have to work with? Hmmm.

·      One cauliflower

·      One shrink-wrapped ham chunk

·      Eggs, natch (five)

·      A leftover half-wedge of Brie on its last legs (if you’ll allow Brie legs)

·      A few ugly looking mushrooms, which had gotten lost in the back of the frig

·      Breadcrumbs

·      An onion, olive oil, capers, spices

Voilà, then, the ingredients for Casserole Chou-fleur, not yet as celebrated as Veal Marengo (invented June 14, 1800 for Napoleon after his famous victory), but just wait.

Dice cauliflower, onion, and dicey mushrooms into niblets (a.k.a., morsels). Boil them in water till not quite mushy. Drain.

In separate mixing bowl, combine whisked eggs, cubed ham, breadcrumbs, dollop of olive oil, splash of vinegar, capers. Stir and season to taste.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, since that’s its preset.

Excavate cracked casserole dish you keep meaning to replace but forget to.

Combine not-quite-mushy mix with gooey/chunky mix, spoon into casserole dish, set timer for forty minutes, pour two Negronis, and pray.

Skin left-over brie and slice into thin strips, really thin, because there may not be enough. Place strips atop your now bubbling, surprisingly tasty-looking concoction. Broil till cheese strips puff golden-brown (four minutes or so).

Serve with a flourish and the sort of aw-shucks modesty which betrays rampant vanity, while Henry observes curiously. Bait breath and watch Jane bite.

“Yummy,” she smacks her lips. “What is it?”

“Casserole chou-fleur,” announce confidently (in France, Chou-fleur americaine), so much more raffiné than cheesy/loaded/potluck.

Why share this recipe today?

Because I’m sick to screeching of Trump’s flabby face, turpitude, lies, whines, contempt for law, democracy, and civility, and of the forty-five percent of my fellow Americans who consider this OK.

Let’s smile while we can.