Gad-zukes! Trudy warned me …

… and sure enough, she was right: There’s always a zucchini that gets away from you.

It was a stealthy sucker hidden in the deep abyss that I like to call the “squash patch”. It’s a place where small children should never venture, at least never alone. It looks pretty and lush with it’s beautiful bright yellow blossoms, but has teeny tiny thorns that’ll prick you and create a rash on your arm. It has hidden hollows were the local garden animalia gather to play cards, smoke cigars and drink whiskey. It’s a dark place with secrets.

Somehow I missed harvesting this particular zuke—we’ll call him Ed—when he was still a middling, which is, in my opinion, when the zukes taste best. I didn’t discover him until it was too late. He was HUGE. I would show you a picture of him, but I have momentarily lost my phone (with which I took his photo), a situation that is verging toward traumatic and I’m trying hard not to think about it. If I ever find the phone again (wah!) I’ll show you the picture of Ed placed next to a banana for scale. The poor banana, once confident and righteous about its size was made to feel puny and insignificant compared to the ginormousness that was Ed. Ed was BIG. And swarthy. Ed was intimidating and just a wee bit sexy if you know what I mean.

I stared at Ed and wondered, “How in the world am I going to use up all that zuke? It’s too much! It’s too huge!”

Snicker. (It is not often that a girl gets to say that with total dismay.)

Of course, Trudy’s recipe (and warning) came to mind. But I had a feeling that just one recipe wasn’t going to be enough. And I was right.

Ed yielded over 15 cups of shredded zuke. FIFTEEN CUPS!

The average GENEROUSLY proportioned zuke recipe calls for 2 cups. What the hay balls was I going to do with 15?

Asparagus, gruyere and zucchini puff pastry tarts

I’ve been seeing this recipe for puff pastry tarts floating around the internet lately and we finally got around to making it. Or … I should say, Jack, finally got around to making it.

Commercial break: Here’s the deal, during the work week I do the cooking because my commute is a 10-second walk across the kitchen. Jack’s commute is … well, we don’t want to go there. Let’s just say it’s loooooooooong. Many books and much news can be listened to.

Anyway, on the weekends he prefers to do the cooking. The man’s a fabulous cook. It makes him happy. And I’m all about making Jack a happy camper.

When he insists on cooking dinner, who am I to argue? Instead I happily skidaddle to another room with a good book, or I paint my toenails, or I just stare at the ceiling, pick my nose and contemplate nirvana. It’s an idyllic time. I don’t question it; I just enjoy it.

Back to scheduled programming: Here’s the ridiculously easy recipe along with our modifications …