Last week I boldly poached an egg, which I have never done before. This week I am taking it a step further, throwing some pig meat and hollandaise sauce into the mix to make my first eggs benedict.
This was how I saw it in my head, at least.
I was excited to make eggs benedict, because my culturally starved sweetheart had never actually tried them before. I know, I'm in love with a strange one. I'm working on him, I promise. Anyway, I pulled up Tyler Florence's hollandaise sauce recipe and figured that there was nothing else to know.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a rookie mistake.
The most important thing to know is that sauces share a common trait with chihuahuas, Siamese cats, and brides: they are attention whores. One should never walk away from a sauce recipe. It doesn't matter if an important call comes through; hold the phone with one hand and stir yourself into early arthritis. Because of this it is ideal, sometimes essential, to have all sauce ingredients pre-measured and on hand to add as needed.
I was not prepared with ingredients at all. I was already whipping up my egg yolks when I noticed that I was out of lemon juice. When you're missing one fifth of the listed ingredients, two of which are needed in pinch increments, you can expect a long hard road ahead. I tried two versions: one without lemon juice, and one with lime juice instead. LIME. JUICE. I wish I could claim massive inebriation, but I can't (nor can I say which version was worse).
Ben didn't seem to mind my massive breakfast blunder. He liked the entire combination, and while he didn't ask for seconds he did ask to try it again (for real next time).
I will spare you the photos, as the end result was not that pretty.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
My Father's Daughter
I cannot credit all of my cooking know-how to my mother. Actually, I probably spent more hours in front of my father's stove, making all sorts of dishes that would piss off the average single dad. He would take his time in explaining recipes and techniques to cooking, but I started blocking him out when I realized that he just loved to hear himself speak.
I wished I had paid more attention on Christmas, when Dad would make milk-poached eggs on sourdough toast. I was too busy paying attention to presents to remember anything, except that it takes a ridiculous amount of milk to do it properly. I cannot remember how to properly poach an egg, or whether the sourdough toast needed any prep work aside from slicing. I do remember that it was delicious; that memory stands out the strongest.
Yesterday when I asked Ben how he wanted his breakfast eggs he told me to surprise him. Aside from wondering who this sexy Ben-like stranger was in my home, I decided to try out my dad's old holiday special. I really pulled a Captain Kirk on this one, doing a quick scan of poached egg techniques and hoping that the rest would come to me like some ancient family spell.
Amazingly enough, my family magic came through. The eggs were soft, delicious, and creamy. The milk made a great topping for the sourdough toast, as well. Ben and I polished off a dozen eggs between us, and I was ready for more. I have already scheduled a breakfast date with Father Augustine so I can share more family food secrets with him (he's practically family at this point, anyway).
The only drawback is that I crave poached eggs EXCLUSIVELY today. Pancakes? No thanks, I want eggs. Caramel candy? No, eggs. Anything else in the history of anything, ever?!
Nope, I made more poached eggs instead. I'm pathetic.
I wished I had paid more attention on Christmas, when Dad would make milk-poached eggs on sourdough toast. I was too busy paying attention to presents to remember anything, except that it takes a ridiculous amount of milk to do it properly. I cannot remember how to properly poach an egg, or whether the sourdough toast needed any prep work aside from slicing. I do remember that it was delicious; that memory stands out the strongest.
Yesterday when I asked Ben how he wanted his breakfast eggs he told me to surprise him. Aside from wondering who this sexy Ben-like stranger was in my home, I decided to try out my dad's old holiday special. I really pulled a Captain Kirk on this one, doing a quick scan of poached egg techniques and hoping that the rest would come to me like some ancient family spell.
Amazingly enough, my family magic came through. The eggs were soft, delicious, and creamy. The milk made a great topping for the sourdough toast, as well. Ben and I polished off a dozen eggs between us, and I was ready for more. I have already scheduled a breakfast date with Father Augustine so I can share more family food secrets with him (he's practically family at this point, anyway).
The only drawback is that I crave poached eggs EXCLUSIVELY today. Pancakes? No thanks, I want eggs. Caramel candy? No, eggs. Anything else in the history of anything, ever?!
Nope, I made more poached eggs instead. I'm pathetic.
Friday, May 21, 2010
And the Sky is Gray
I miss California in every way possible. I miss the culture, the opportunities, the art and refinement, the friends and the nights out.
I miss the sun most of all.
As if living in a glorified den isn't frustrating enough, these late May days have been either torrential and cold or sunny-ish and cold. I have walked to school under an umbrella that vaguely resembles the roof of Denver International Airport, only to have the sun taunt me once I finally found a cozy corner of Knight Library. In California my winter clothes would already be collecting dust, to say nothing about my nonexistent umbrella. The only sunlight today has been my research paper, which is finished as of last night and ready for final editing. While it is an elating accomplishment, it still doesn't compare to a genuine spring day (about which Oregon clearly knows jack).
I now find myself with a boatload of free hours, palpable homesickness, and the lingering belief that I carry California with me wherever I stand. As I love making food that speaks for my mood or the important events in my life, it made sense to make some truly Californian food to mark my loyalty.
What constitutes Californian food? There are many cultures that have made a home in California, and the state has a proud agricultural legacy. I could go about this in many different ways while still accomplishing my goal. To figure it out I made a clear picture of what I missed most at the moment, which was sun-drizzled Central California. With that I thought of a casual lunch by the beach, surfing, and the lazy afternoons that I used to enjoy before moving northward.
The end product was turkey burgers with Swiss cheese, avocado, and green tea with orange, which were absolutely perfect. I was eating more than the products behind California's best ad campaigns; I was munching on a little bit of sunshine. Ben liked it so much that we are having them again tonight. For a few minutes I was at home, and the feeling lingered until I could almost feel it in my fingertips.
My apologies to any Oregonians who feel that I am snubbing your state. I promise this isn't the case at all; surely you can understand how it feels to love something so much that any alternative pales in comparison. You have your state, and it works for you. I have mine.
California dreaming, on such a spring day.
I miss the sun most of all.
As if living in a glorified den isn't frustrating enough, these late May days have been either torrential and cold or sunny-ish and cold. I have walked to school under an umbrella that vaguely resembles the roof of Denver International Airport, only to have the sun taunt me once I finally found a cozy corner of Knight Library. In California my winter clothes would already be collecting dust, to say nothing about my nonexistent umbrella. The only sunlight today has been my research paper, which is finished as of last night and ready for final editing. While it is an elating accomplishment, it still doesn't compare to a genuine spring day (about which Oregon clearly knows jack).
I now find myself with a boatload of free hours, palpable homesickness, and the lingering belief that I carry California with me wherever I stand. As I love making food that speaks for my mood or the important events in my life, it made sense to make some truly Californian food to mark my loyalty.
What constitutes Californian food? There are many cultures that have made a home in California, and the state has a proud agricultural legacy. I could go about this in many different ways while still accomplishing my goal. To figure it out I made a clear picture of what I missed most at the moment, which was sun-drizzled Central California. With that I thought of a casual lunch by the beach, surfing, and the lazy afternoons that I used to enjoy before moving northward.
The end product was turkey burgers with Swiss cheese, avocado, and green tea with orange, which were absolutely perfect. I was eating more than the products behind California's best ad campaigns; I was munching on a little bit of sunshine. Ben liked it so much that we are having them again tonight. For a few minutes I was at home, and the feeling lingered until I could almost feel it in my fingertips.
My apologies to any Oregonians who feel that I am snubbing your state. I promise this isn't the case at all; surely you can understand how it feels to love something so much that any alternative pales in comparison. You have your state, and it works for you. I have mine.
California dreaming, on such a spring day.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Cool Water
I am damned fortunate, more so than I ever truly know. Every morning I wake up to a solid roof, the certainty of a meal, the rich challenges of graduate classes, the love of a good man and beautiful friends, and the chances to simply create. I forget to focus on my luck quite often.
Today in class I was reminded of a blessing I hardly even acknowledge: water. I am no stranger to droughts (I am Californian, after all). I even panicked once when I saw Ben pour a half-finished glass down the drain. I still never give it much thought because I can always count on a cool glass of water if I need one. The Dining Room in Eugene offers as much water as you like with your meal. Fresh, cool, clean water.
I hope that the following image will speak for itself. In case it does not, let me remind you to think about how lucky you are to have even a glass of clean water.
Today in class I was reminded of a blessing I hardly even acknowledge: water. I am no stranger to droughts (I am Californian, after all). I even panicked once when I saw Ben pour a half-finished glass down the drain. I still never give it much thought because I can always count on a cool glass of water if I need one. The Dining Room in Eugene offers as much water as you like with your meal. Fresh, cool, clean water.
I hope that the following image will speak for itself. In case it does not, let me remind you to think about how lucky you are to have even a glass of clean water.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
La Vie en Romance
Bon anniversaire à nous.
To be truthful, I had no intention of celebrating a year and a half with Ben for two reasons. For one, it seemed like a silly and staggered time to be romantic. For another, I had spent the past two weeks with nary a moment away from my research. For all the intensity of my well-guarded sentimental side, the research was the true driving source behind distraction. I interviewed subjects during coffee breaks, read academic journals during long drives with Ben, and even worked through our lovely beach weekend. The poor man has hardly eaten this week, no thanks to me.
To keep him from forgetting his love life entirely I promised that I would not do any work on Friday, which also happened to be our year and a half anniversary. I spent the entire week drafting and interviewing, classifying and arguing, cramming my hours with as much as possible so Friday could be spent study-free and guilt-free.
As the days went by I became more enamored with staring into the eyes of the mythical free evening. What would this beast look like, I wondered, and where is its home territory? Ben had been so long around a manic thesis nut that he was strapped for ideas as well; to be safe I made reservations at several romantic restaurants in both Eugene and Portland. In the end we took a spontaneous trip to Portland and ended up at the steps of Brasserie Montmartre, a restaurant of which I have been dying to patronize for months.
This is where my night begins, and Ben's ends. You see, Ben and I radically differ in our idea of a good night out. I love nothing more than an artful meal, an inventive cocktail or two, and a thick dose of dancing all in a gorgeous setting. Ben loves food and cocktails, but finds the dancing and the added fancy details to be all too unnecessary. He fretted about nice clothes (of which he has none), stared at the wine list as if illiterate, and wrinkled his nose at the sight "beurre rouge" or "cassoulet" without ever asking what they meant. I don't even want to mention his tantrum over suggesting that he try escargot. We skipped the appetizers to spare him more panic and picked beer over cocktails, though I was deeply enamored with a cherry Manhattan called the "Don Draper". He played it safe with the rack of lamb, while I chose the chicken chasseur.
Though Ben was out of his element, he was dear company. He was able to pick out certain French words as our darling, fluent waitress and I conversed. Come to think of it, I think he picked out "cheese" and "Don Draper". While his rack of lamb was more architectural than my (outright sexy) chicken chasseur, he ate it like a good sport and discovered that he enjoys parsnip purée. He was also not the weakest link as far as dress was concerned; a man at our adjacent table was in plaid shorts and sandals. That this man found it appropriate to wear plaid shorts to a restaurant that offers port-soaked currants overwhelms me with both laughter and migraines.
The night was a slow-t0-start success. Though Ben was frightened at first, he got through it. We were able to enjoy a cool, cuddly night together to celebrate that we love each other. We also managed some time with our dear friends Ben and Alicia, whose wedding I am catering next month. What's most important to me, I was able to plunge into a nice night without fretting about my gallant graduate project. I have looked the mythical free evening in the eye, and I liked it.
Mark my words, though: before we hit two years, Ben will eat escargot.
To be truthful, I had no intention of celebrating a year and a half with Ben for two reasons. For one, it seemed like a silly and staggered time to be romantic. For another, I had spent the past two weeks with nary a moment away from my research. For all the intensity of my well-guarded sentimental side, the research was the true driving source behind distraction. I interviewed subjects during coffee breaks, read academic journals during long drives with Ben, and even worked through our lovely beach weekend. The poor man has hardly eaten this week, no thanks to me.
To keep him from forgetting his love life entirely I promised that I would not do any work on Friday, which also happened to be our year and a half anniversary. I spent the entire week drafting and interviewing, classifying and arguing, cramming my hours with as much as possible so Friday could be spent study-free and guilt-free.
As the days went by I became more enamored with staring into the eyes of the mythical free evening. What would this beast look like, I wondered, and where is its home territory? Ben had been so long around a manic thesis nut that he was strapped for ideas as well; to be safe I made reservations at several romantic restaurants in both Eugene and Portland. In the end we took a spontaneous trip to Portland and ended up at the steps of Brasserie Montmartre, a restaurant of which I have been dying to patronize for months.
This is where my night begins, and Ben's ends. You see, Ben and I radically differ in our idea of a good night out. I love nothing more than an artful meal, an inventive cocktail or two, and a thick dose of dancing all in a gorgeous setting. Ben loves food and cocktails, but finds the dancing and the added fancy details to be all too unnecessary. He fretted about nice clothes (of which he has none), stared at the wine list as if illiterate, and wrinkled his nose at the sight "beurre rouge" or "cassoulet" without ever asking what they meant. I don't even want to mention his tantrum over suggesting that he try escargot. We skipped the appetizers to spare him more panic and picked beer over cocktails, though I was deeply enamored with a cherry Manhattan called the "Don Draper". He played it safe with the rack of lamb, while I chose the chicken chasseur.
Though Ben was out of his element, he was dear company. He was able to pick out certain French words as our darling, fluent waitress and I conversed. Come to think of it, I think he picked out "cheese" and "Don Draper". While his rack of lamb was more architectural than my (outright sexy) chicken chasseur, he ate it like a good sport and discovered that he enjoys parsnip purée. He was also not the weakest link as far as dress was concerned; a man at our adjacent table was in plaid shorts and sandals. That this man found it appropriate to wear plaid shorts to a restaurant that offers port-soaked currants overwhelms me with both laughter and migraines.
The night was a slow-t0-start success. Though Ben was frightened at first, he got through it. We were able to enjoy a cool, cuddly night together to celebrate that we love each other. We also managed some time with our dear friends Ben and Alicia, whose wedding I am catering next month. What's most important to me, I was able to plunge into a nice night without fretting about my gallant graduate project. I have looked the mythical free evening in the eye, and I liked it.
Mark my words, though: before we hit two years, Ben will eat escargot.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
A Dining Room to Call My Own
Before you congratulate me, I didn't move to a bigger apartment with a real dining room. I didn't move into a place with a real kitchen, either. I didn't move at all; I'm in the same cave with the same hot plate (and let's not forget Lenny).
What I do have is so much better than a bigger place to live. I have a volunteer gig.
I can thank Father Augustine for the nudge. He could plainly see that I was restless, that I needed to do more, be more, and (most importantly) give more. During another one of my frustrated fits he suggested that I could volunteer with some of the undergraduate students at the Dining Room, which is probably Eugene's most precious jewel. Imagine a restaurant where all of the food is donated, most of the produce is organically and locally grown, and the diners can come in and have a free meal. It sounds like a soup kitchen, but with so much more to it. As the staff likes to say, it's "dining with dignity". The place looks just like a restaurant, and even has diner-painted murals and a piano for the musically inclined. From Monday to Thursday every week the Dining Room's staff and volunteers feed the homeless, the travelers, and the working Eugenians that can't quite stretch their pay far enough. Booths are filled with families and new acquaintances, and for the most part everyone is happy to be there.
I signed up in late April, and I have been hooked ever since. I have the honor of scraping dishes, bussing tables, or serving beverages and desserts (depending on the staffing needs of the day) twice per week, sometimes more. I dive into my two-hour shift, singing for the diners the whole way through. If they let me I would be there every day for both shifts, singing and getting my hands dirty with whatever they needed. I now know some frequent diners (and all of the staff) by name, and no matter how my day goes I can count on being flooded with genuine spunk the moment I grab my apron. I leave feeling tired and grateful for the room that I do have, the love I share, and the belly that is either already full or will soon be. The room I lack at home is suddenly irrelevant, for in giving more I suddenly find more to hand off to others.
My time spent here is more than just giving back, and is more than fortifying my pledge that no one will go hungry on my watch. This is community in action, at its most splendid and loving. I cannot study development in good conscience if I don't live it at the same time. Perhaps I should write my thesis on my time here.
What I do have is so much better than a bigger place to live. I have a volunteer gig.
I can thank Father Augustine for the nudge. He could plainly see that I was restless, that I needed to do more, be more, and (most importantly) give more. During another one of my frustrated fits he suggested that I could volunteer with some of the undergraduate students at the Dining Room, which is probably Eugene's most precious jewel. Imagine a restaurant where all of the food is donated, most of the produce is organically and locally grown, and the diners can come in and have a free meal. It sounds like a soup kitchen, but with so much more to it. As the staff likes to say, it's "dining with dignity". The place looks just like a restaurant, and even has diner-painted murals and a piano for the musically inclined. From Monday to Thursday every week the Dining Room's staff and volunteers feed the homeless, the travelers, and the working Eugenians that can't quite stretch their pay far enough. Booths are filled with families and new acquaintances, and for the most part everyone is happy to be there.
I signed up in late April, and I have been hooked ever since. I have the honor of scraping dishes, bussing tables, or serving beverages and desserts (depending on the staffing needs of the day) twice per week, sometimes more. I dive into my two-hour shift, singing for the diners the whole way through. If they let me I would be there every day for both shifts, singing and getting my hands dirty with whatever they needed. I now know some frequent diners (and all of the staff) by name, and no matter how my day goes I can count on being flooded with genuine spunk the moment I grab my apron. I leave feeling tired and grateful for the room that I do have, the love I share, and the belly that is either already full or will soon be. The room I lack at home is suddenly irrelevant, for in giving more I suddenly find more to hand off to others.
My time spent here is more than just giving back, and is more than fortifying my pledge that no one will go hungry on my watch. This is community in action, at its most splendid and loving. I cannot study development in good conscience if I don't live it at the same time. Perhaps I should write my thesis on my time here.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Beyond Brinner
Remember when I said that I was too traumatized from my first dinner party to have another one? I lied.
Before I go on I must confess that I am a comic book power dork. I devour the comics, debate the themes with ease, and once drove from Salem, Oregon to Sacramento, California in six hours and change because my friend scored us tickets to the much-coveted "Spiderman" premiere. I incurred a speeding ticket and severe hypoglycemic shock from that drive, but it was worth it.
Once midnight showings became de rigueur I would amass people at my house beforehand for dinner. At first the guest list consisted of Stephen (my best friend) and Scott (my roommate) with the rest of our movie group joining us at the theater. After a while, though, people began to see the brilliance of my plan. We comic book enthusiasts knew that the only way to see a comic book movie is at midnight, and the only way to preface a midnight showing is with brinner.
Until now I had been most famous for my "Dark Knight" brinner, which consisted of several frittatas with various organic sausages, exotic cheeses, and delicious potato crusts (I don't reveal the recipe because my family would probably behead me). From then on I was the legendary Brinner Goddess, and the twenty people who ate with me were convinced that every other brinner would pale in comparison.
They were WRONG.
Last night was the premiere of "Iron Man 2", a movie I have been anxiously awaiting since the credits rolled on the first "Iron Man" installment. As none of my Eugene-based comic book power dorks had been witness to my awesome brinner powers, I shrugged off this week's dinner party defeat and fired up the waffle maker.
Ben pulled out all the stops when he came home with groceries for the meal. He picked up slab after slab of the finest bacon, giant German sausages, organic berries for my famous berry sauce, flats of eggs, and beer. The best part about brinner is being able to justify beer with your waffles.
I had the electric skillet and waffle maker at the perfect temperature once my good friend Andrew showed up. He and Jen were the first to dive into a delicious waffle topped with bacon and eggs cooked to order (skipping the berry sauce, which was perfect). Ben and I preferred breakfast burritos stuffed to capacity with eggs, sausage, and bacon, with a side waffle drenched in berry sauce.
Andrew and my friend Duy showed up next, late as usual, with his roommate Jaleb and some beer to go with our waffles. Jaleb wasn't hungry, which was almost grounds for forcing him to wait outside until we were done eating. Duy was kind enough to eat Jaleb's share of the monstrous meal (pictured above).
Last (as usual) but certainly not least was our favorite Father Augustine, who remarked at the cultural mishmash that is a Belgian waffle next to a burrito. I expected him to just leave it at that. Instead, he took the mishmash a step further, using his waffle as a tortilla to wrap his bacon and eggs into a Belgian burrito of sorts. I would have snapped a picture of his genius work, but we were all frankly too stunned by it to move or speak.
True to brinner's form, it was the perfect preface to an amazing midnight movie. I dare say that it was even more epic than the "Dark Knight" fritattas of 2008. My friends in California have been sending me messages all morning expressing their disdain for not being there, either for brinner or the movie. Perhaps the most forlorn is my good friend Shine, who was witness to the "Dark Knight" brinner and is in Taipei for the next indefinite length of time. He still doesn't believe that this brinner could have been better than the last one, though. No one in California does.
Only my Eugene friends know the truth.
Before I go on I must confess that I am a comic book power dork. I devour the comics, debate the themes with ease, and once drove from Salem, Oregon to Sacramento, California in six hours and change because my friend scored us tickets to the much-coveted "Spiderman" premiere. I incurred a speeding ticket and severe hypoglycemic shock from that drive, but it was worth it.
Once midnight showings became de rigueur I would amass people at my house beforehand for dinner. At first the guest list consisted of Stephen (my best friend) and Scott (my roommate) with the rest of our movie group joining us at the theater. After a while, though, people began to see the brilliance of my plan. We comic book enthusiasts knew that the only way to see a comic book movie is at midnight, and the only way to preface a midnight showing is with brinner.
Until now I had been most famous for my "Dark Knight" brinner, which consisted of several frittatas with various organic sausages, exotic cheeses, and delicious potato crusts (I don't reveal the recipe because my family would probably behead me). From then on I was the legendary Brinner Goddess, and the twenty people who ate with me were convinced that every other brinner would pale in comparison.
They were WRONG.
Last night was the premiere of "Iron Man 2", a movie I have been anxiously awaiting since the credits rolled on the first "Iron Man" installment. As none of my Eugene-based comic book power dorks had been witness to my awesome brinner powers, I shrugged off this week's dinner party defeat and fired up the waffle maker.
Ben pulled out all the stops when he came home with groceries for the meal. He picked up slab after slab of the finest bacon, giant German sausages, organic berries for my famous berry sauce, flats of eggs, and beer. The best part about brinner is being able to justify beer with your waffles.
I had the electric skillet and waffle maker at the perfect temperature once my good friend Andrew showed up. He and Jen were the first to dive into a delicious waffle topped with bacon and eggs cooked to order (skipping the berry sauce, which was perfect). Ben and I preferred breakfast burritos stuffed to capacity with eggs, sausage, and bacon, with a side waffle drenched in berry sauce.
Andrew and my friend Duy showed up next, late as usual, with his roommate Jaleb and some beer to go with our waffles. Jaleb wasn't hungry, which was almost grounds for forcing him to wait outside until we were done eating. Duy was kind enough to eat Jaleb's share of the monstrous meal (pictured above).
Last (as usual) but certainly not least was our favorite Father Augustine, who remarked at the cultural mishmash that is a Belgian waffle next to a burrito. I expected him to just leave it at that. Instead, he took the mishmash a step further, using his waffle as a tortilla to wrap his bacon and eggs into a Belgian burrito of sorts. I would have snapped a picture of his genius work, but we were all frankly too stunned by it to move or speak.
True to brinner's form, it was the perfect preface to an amazing midnight movie. I dare say that it was even more epic than the "Dark Knight" fritattas of 2008. My friends in California have been sending me messages all morning expressing their disdain for not being there, either for brinner or the movie. Perhaps the most forlorn is my good friend Shine, who was witness to the "Dark Knight" brinner and is in Taipei for the next indefinite length of time. He still doesn't believe that this brinner could have been better than the last one, though. No one in California does.
Only my Eugene friends know the truth.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Dinner Party -or- The Three Stooges and a Studio Kitchen
Augustine, Ben, Jen, and I secured a date for my first dinner party at the studio (tonight at 5). I finalized the menu (blade steaks with marsala mushroom sauce and angel hair tossed with garlic, basil, and tomatoes). I sent Ben out for wine, gave myself an hour to cook everything properly. The angel hair did its thing in my (now priceless) electric skillet, while the steaks broiled in Lenny and the sauce mingled on the hot plate (in a sauce pot, of course).
Five minutes passed. Ten. Augustine has a habit of running late, but this is excessive. Perhaps he and Jen stopped to get wine?
The phone rang. Jen has been waiting for Augustine at the dorms. She called and texted him, asking if he would rather meet at the church, but he had not answered. My calls to him went straight to voice mail.
I stared at my finished (and lovely) dinner creation in horror. I had no idea how long they would be, so I couldn't in good conscience let dinner get cold (microwaving is murder in my house). I also couldn't keep it warm forever, lest the steak dry out and the sauce boil down to mushroom-flavored cream-infused Jello. I did what I could by brushing the steaks, lowering Lenny's temperature, adding way too much marsala wine to the sauce (and having to balance it out with other frantically-measured ingredients), and setting the already tossed angel hair on top of Lenny to keep warm.
I was assembling a rescue party for Jen at half past five, just as Augustine showed up. I barked at him; he barked at me. (We love each other, but neither of us handles hunger in the most adult way.) He ran off to get Jen, I looked in despair at my dehydrated meal, and tried my best not to use a blade steak as a Frisbee.
By the time Augustine and Jen had arrived I had given up on the meal. I was outside, feeding apples and carrots to the deer and envying them for the delicious freshness of their meal (and their meat, to be perfectly honest). Everyone still had dinner, but it consisted of a dry blade steak drowned in a mushroom sauce that was now too sweet and angel hair primavera that had gone stiff. Augustine and Jen still complimented the meal and thanked me for the invitation, but it was a serious blow to my surge of confidence. It will probably be a while until I have another dinner party.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Augustine has a habit of running late, but this is excessive. Perhaps he and Jen stopped to get wine?
The phone rang. Jen has been waiting for Augustine at the dorms. She called and texted him, asking if he would rather meet at the church, but he had not answered. My calls to him went straight to voice mail.
I stared at my finished (and lovely) dinner creation in horror. I had no idea how long they would be, so I couldn't in good conscience let dinner get cold (microwaving is murder in my house). I also couldn't keep it warm forever, lest the steak dry out and the sauce boil down to mushroom-flavored cream-infused Jello. I did what I could by brushing the steaks, lowering Lenny's temperature, adding way too much marsala wine to the sauce (and having to balance it out with other frantically-measured ingredients), and setting the already tossed angel hair on top of Lenny to keep warm.
I was assembling a rescue party for Jen at half past five, just as Augustine showed up. I barked at him; he barked at me. (We love each other, but neither of us handles hunger in the most adult way.) He ran off to get Jen, I looked in despair at my dehydrated meal, and tried my best not to use a blade steak as a Frisbee.
By the time Augustine and Jen had arrived I had given up on the meal. I was outside, feeding apples and carrots to the deer and envying them for the delicious freshness of their meal (and their meat, to be perfectly honest). Everyone still had dinner, but it consisted of a dry blade steak drowned in a mushroom sauce that was now too sweet and angel hair primavera that had gone stiff. Augustine and Jen still complimented the meal and thanked me for the invitation, but it was a serious blow to my surge of confidence. It will probably be a while until I have another dinner party.
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