Two post-fondue recovery ideas:

Idea Number One:

Say your oh-so-generous guests have brought you an abundance of baguette, just waiting to be chopped, skewered and dipped into your luscious vat of melted goodness. What do you you do? Why, you chop up that bread, knowing full well that everyone loves the bread best of all. And all guests fill their plates with bread, elated by the bounty.

Now dinner's over, bellies are full and rounded, plates are cleared, when you discover in your living room another bowl of bread bites, completely untouched! And not just any bowl - the largest mixing bowl in your whole kitchen, mounded high with bread. You cradle the bowl, knowing you have enough bite-sized pieces of bread here to make croutons that will last you well into retirement.

But croutons, oh making croutons, right now that seems like so much work. You thoughtfully pat your very full belly.

The snow outside the window catches your eye, your gaze drifts back to the bread bowl. Croutons, yes croutons, if only you weren't so full and fat and lazy, if only you could just get a bit of exercise first and work off this post-fondue-haze. You glance back at the falling snow, back to the bread, and suddenly their seems an analogy here too profound to ignore.

You snap out of your reverie, gather the bread, gather your guests and step out onto your balcony and start throwing pieces of bread into the air one by one, watching them swim, carefree, through the cold winter air. They are snow, they are the milky way galaxy, they are a symbol of your vitality and your youth!

(Oh I know oh I know it's so wasteful, but it just felt so right so amazing at the time. And, the next afternoon when I heard those happy winter birds chirping around my front steps, I knew it wasn't in vain. I worked off a bit of my fondue chub, and those fat little birds didn't feel so cold that night.)


Idea Number Two:

Say your oh-so-generous guests have brought you an abundance of grape tomatoes just ready to be dipped into your luscious vat of melted goodness. What do you do? Well, given that you're a little light-headed from consuming little more than garlic, butter, cheese and of course bread over the last 36 hours, it's time to make yourself a nice healthy meal. I know you're starving, but just hold out for another four hours or so to make these slow-roasted tomatoes. The tomatoes taste like what sun-dried tomatoes would taste like if they were actually dried inside the sun. It's worth every hour of the wait, I promise.

Fusilli with Slow Roasted Tomatoes and Preserved Lemons

Ingredients
2 pints grape tomatoes, halved
3 cloves of garlic, crushed
3 tbs. olive oil
pepper and salt, to taste

1 lb fusilli
1 tbs. olive oil
1 shallot, thinly sliced
1 pint cremini mushrooms, sliced
1/2 cup vermouth
5 slices of preserved lemon rind, diced (should you not have preserved lemons on hand, and you're not interested in waiting an additional week or so for your dinner, you could use a tablespoon or so of fresh lemon zest and salt to taste.)
1/2 c. grated parmigiano reggiano

About 4.5 hours before you would like to eat, preheat the oven to 250 degrees. Arrange the halved tomatoes in aesthetically, cut side up in a 9 x 13 baking pan. Combine the olive oil and the garlic, and then gently brush with the garlic and oil. Sprinkle generously with salt and pepper, and then roast until shriveled, crinkled and deep, deep red, about 3.5 - 4 hours.

Bring a large pot of salted water to boil, and cook pasta. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup cooking water.

Meanwhile, in a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Saute the shallot until just beginning to turn golden, then saute the mushrooms until they are beginning to brown. Add the vermouth and simmer until the liquid is reduced to about 2 tablespoons.

Stir the lemons and slow-roasted tomatoes in the mushrooms until just warmed. Toss with hot pasta, parmigiano reggiano and reserved cooking water as necessary. Serve immediately.