Cuisine III

You know that whole thing they used to do with sending a canary down a mineshaft to see if it croaked or sang? Yeah? Well, my culinary canary just fell off its perch and hit the floor with a sad little thud.

I have just had a dinner party trial-run and cooked a delectable coq au vin. Fucking delectable, I tell you. I followed this recipe to the letter; it took me over 2 hours – at the wrong end of a day in which I have driven 120 maniac-filled miles, moreover – and it turned out beautifully. The flavours were fabulous.

I summoned John to come and dish up, and he peered cautiously over my shoulder into the pan. A pan filled with chicken, cooked in red wine.
“That chicken’s gone a funny colour!” he announced.
“It’s gone all… rancid-looking…”
“Well, the skin’s gone all… red!” he exclaimed, before catching my cryogenic look and adding hurriedly “But I’m sure it’ll be lovely!”

We ate. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I cleared my plate and faced him.
“Ummmm… I’m not… I’m not that taken with it.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I’m, er… not sure. Perhaps the brandy. And the chicken’s… gone a funny colour.”

Sigh. It’s pointless trying to talk him into liking it; it’s simply not what he’s used to eating. And if he doesn’t like it, then none of them bloody will. I learnt my lesson over the goat’s cheese incident. Hubby pulled some mighty funny faces when I was preparing that, but I pressed on and served it anyway. 12  full-ish plates came back to the kitchen, in various states of toyed-with-ness. I felt… dejected. Almost sulky, in fact.

I’m not having a good culinary week. I cooked ratatouille yesterday, came to check blog feeds, got distracted, wildly overcooked it. Bugger. I also tried to cook half a butternut squash, completely forgot it was in the oven – are you seeing a theme? – and 2.5 hours later was attempting to scrape out the innards to mash. I reached for maple syrup, and remembered that John smashed my bottle, which I can’t replace because there’s a worldwide bloody shortage of the stuff. So I reached for the cinnamon instead, and managed to accidentally up-end half the wretched jar into the bowl. Arse.

I’m going to bed and back to the drawing board.

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