When Felix bounded out of the house to head back to Williamsburg earlier this week, it was not with a bang but a whimper.  To further torture T.S. Eliot, the whimper was entirely mine when I opened the refrigerator to figure out dinner, and realized my beloved, recently departed son had left it a veritable waste land. Once my eyes grew accustomed to the bizarre appearance of open space in my hitherto jumbled, bursting fridge, I realized that surely there was something in there that I could scrounge together into something I'd actually like to eat.  The thing was, it was late, I was tired, it was cold, and I felt that Jeff and I could really use something  that seemed more like comfort food than gourmet repast.

At least some eggs were there, and some feta cheese was twinkling away for starters, oh and a jar of harissa...then an image burst into my brain.  I'd been looking at Yotam Ottolenghi's great book Jerusalem the other day, for an unrelated issue.   The gorgeous cover sprung into my mind and I raced for the book.