I title this “ The Magic of Cooking” instead of “The Joy of Cooking” as there was no joy to be had in my kitchen this last weekend. I foolishly and yet typically decided to try three new recipes … at one time … in one day. Never before had I made these dishes and yet somehow I believed it was a good idea to lump their trials into one glorious meal for the husband.
Pinterest played a hand in this providing me with said recipes and ideas. Somehow it always makes me believe trying something new will be simple, delicious and quick. Maybe one of these dishes would have been, but all three at one time … not so much.
I started out the day choosing my menu, making a list of ingredients, and shopping wisely. No problem. I’ve done this hundreds of times before. I carted all of the goods home and started to assemble the individual items mentioned in all of the recipes.
The roasted beets and carrots in a maple glaze was going to be paired with lemon chicken scallopini in a tarragon/shallot cream sauce with turmeric vegetable rice on the side. It sounded like a great meal for the husband with leftovers for the next day.
In surveying the pile of ingredients I started to mentally plan what I needed to do first, second and so on. Chopping up all of the vege seemed like a great idea to start. Out came the carrots, shallots, assorted vegetables for the rice and onions. Chopping ensued, piles were made and then it was time for the beets.
If you’ve ever peeled, sliced, then cubed a fresh beet you may understand the blood bath that happened on my cutting board. It looked like I had fresh body parts splayed out with red “juice” running everywhere. My knife looked like Jack the Ripper had owned it. My hands were that of a mass murderer. My apron resembled one worn by Sweeney Todd. All this over only four beets. At last my chopping spree ended and the clean up of the autopsy room proceeded. I wasn’t even a half hour into my meal creation and already I had to scrub the kitchen down.
I squared my shoulders and straightened out my thoughts. On with the show, I thought, and started in on the rice. Not too hard sauteing the shallots, vegetables and herbs. Not too hard adding chicken stock and rice. Setting it to a nice simmer I felt refreshed and emboldened. One down, two to go.
Out came the chicken to come up to room temperature. The recipe said to season liberally, lightly dust with flour and saute in a combination of butter/olive oil. I’ve done this procedure too many times to count in my cooking life so I thought nothing of this step.
What I forgot, and continually seem to forget, is that I have a new stove that is light years ahead of my 20 year old Jennair. It’s faster, more powerful and even plays a tune when the timer goes off. So, when the recipe said to saute the chicken on medium high heat for six minutes on each side I should have adjusted that instruction to read medium low heat for three minutes a side. Alas, I did not. And to add insult to injury I stepped away into another room to do a chore, leaving that chicken in butter to get blistering hot and start to smoke. All of this happened at a fast rate of speed. So fast that I couldn’t hear the little tune the range was making at the end of six minutes because the smoke alarm was screaming, “Smoke, danger, clear the area. Smoke, danger, clear the area.”
Well, that’s just great. My house was filling with smoke, my alarm was yelling at me, my chicken breasts had a thin black skin on them, and if I didn’t hurry my own breasts would become smoky black in hue.
I opened up every window and door in the near vicinity, reset the smoke alarm, peeled off the black portion from the healthy portion of the chicken breasts, took a peak at my own to make sure they were still pink, took a deep, haze filled breath and started to retrieve what little sanity and cooking skills I had left. As the air cleared, I realized I needed to get the beet/carrot mixture in the oven to roast. I also realized I had to make up the sauce the chicken was going to finish cooking in. I also realized the husband hadn’t batted an eye. So much for coming to my rescue, I thought. Or, had this scenario happened once too often in our 38 years of wedded bliss that he just figured he wouldn’t panic until the flames came near and I was passed out on the kitchen floor with smoke inhalation. Quite possibly this went through his mind, although he never said a word about it to me.
By now every pot and pan and cooking utensil I owned was doing some sort of job in the preparation of my creations. Lids were flying, spatulas and whisks were stirring, every burner on the stove was in use, when it suddenly occurred to me Julia Child would be very, very disappointed. She would probably even shake her wooden spoon at me in disgust.
At last, every dish was made and either simmering on the stove top or in the oven to roast. I breathed a sign of relief that it all came together in the end. And then … I surveyed the kitchen. Pots and lids were everywhere because, of course, I couldn’t use just one when it came caramelizing onions, creating a sauce, blanching vegetables, cooking rice, “browning” the chicken. No, I had to use a separate pan for each of these steps. Why? Because I have that many pans and I thought I should use them all. With pans came utensils and I have a drawer full. Out they came and use them all I did.
The stove top was covered with bits of everything I flung in the pans, plus butter that flew when the chicken became too hot. The cutting board still showed evidence of the beet murder and the sink was filling up with the various bowls needed to stage this bloody coup of the kitchen. It was a crime scene at it’s finest, the bludgeoning of a meal, menu-slaughtering. Oh, the inhumanity of it all.
As with every crime scene it took twice as long to clean it all up as it did to commit. Soap suds, cleaning disinfectant and a lot of sponges and paper towels gave their life for this epicurean spread. It did turn out and was delicious but oh, the sacrifice. The husband was happily fed, the clean up was completed, but that meal cost me dearly. It cost me my hubris in thinking I was Julia’s twin; it cost me time out of a busy afternoon; it cost me a t-shirt soaked with beet juice that I can’t possible save. (It looked like I had been riddled with machine gun fire.)
But, in retrospect, isn’t that what trying new things is all about? Taking the chance that things will go wrong and agreeing to go with the flow? I went with the flow, alright, and ended the day in exhaustion. But, I mastered those new recipes by learning exactly what not to do. Pretty much everything I did I should never do again, ever.
And with age, smoke and beets comes wisdom.
magicalmess 