Thursday, March 6, 2014

Even when I get it right, I get it wrong

Tonight’s menu featured sautéed chicken with spices and a prepackaged sauce, some potatoes baked on a skewer for 2 hours, and carrots with green beans in butter and grape jelly.

Now, I could have made many mistakes.  The potatoes could have been baked to death, shriveled and dry.  That didn’t happen; they were just right.

The carrots were cooked in a little bit water with some salt and butter, and then a can of green beans went in the pot with 3 teaspoons of grape jelly.  The carrots could have been undercooked and the grape jelly could have turned everything purple.  That didn’t happen, it was the right color, texture and flavor.   

The chicken fillets were individually frozen pieces.  I thawed them, then sautéed then in a little bit of Worcestershire sauce, some garlic and onion powders, and added a chicken stock packet.  They could have turned into hockey pucks.  That didn’t happen; they browned perfectly and were delicious.

 

Apparently the stars and planets were aligned properly, everything came out beautifully and I didn’t poison anyone.  I mention this because Scott was highly skeptical when he saw the dinner.

 

“What’s this thing on my plate?” he asked.


“It’s chicken.”


“Are you sure?”


“Of course I’m sure.”


“It looks strange.”


“It may be slightly curled, like a lobster tail would be on the grill, but it’s chicken.”


“Where did it come from?  How old is this chicken?  What’s the expiration date on this chicken?”


“They were frozen pieces.”  Looking insulted, I picked up the bag and said, “The expiration date is 8, 2010.”


“Are you kidding?  You’d fed me chicken that expired 4 years ago?”


Smiling, I said, “Of course not.  The expiration date is 8, 2014.”


“It wouldn’t be the first time you fed me expired food.”


“I’m offended.”


“It’s not like you’ve never done it in the past or that you won’t do it in the future, just that you do it.”


“Humph.”


Scott took his food to the man cave and 20 minutes later, came back saying, “I want you to see this, I cleaned my plate.”


This would be his way of paying me a culinary compliment.

 


It’s bad enough when I doubt my own cooking abilities and blow up the microwave, but it’s worse when I’m expected to serve bad food.   


I can’t win.



May all your dinners be culinary delights instead of bad experiments.  I'd love to hear from you.  Email me at aitken.helen@gmail.com.

Have a great dinner.

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