Weekend Update: Re-Education
On Friday afternoon, as I was hunkered down in the kitchen preparing not one but two dinners — Megan and Ryan would be coming that evening; an old friend of Kathleen’s on Saturday — I had to admit that it had been too long since my last serious dinner. For one thing, I had no idea where the gelatine was, and without gelatine I could not make the raspberry charlotte that appeared on the cover of Saveur several years ago. looking utterly luscious. (I’d made it twice before). So I had to go downstairs to buy some, and it was on this errand that I re-thought my plans. I would prepare that night’s menu the next night, and make something simple instead. In addition to the gelatine, I bought chicken, new potatoes, and corn. In the fridge at home, I had a rib steak and a sugar baby (a spherical, seedless watermelon). I was set.
In keeping with this ruder fare, I laid the table on the balcony, not the one in the living room. The weather was perfect! Megan and Ryan arrived about fifteen minutes early, before I’d had a chance to change clothes but after I’d cleaned up after a major screw-up. Into a four-cup measure, I poured the milk for a cornbread recipe, broke in the eggs, and then attempted to beat these ingredients with an electric eggbeater. The measuruing cup was nowhere near large enough to contain the instant surge. Milk and egg flew all over the counter and dripped down the front of the dishwasher into a puddle.
As I say, I’d put this disaster behind me by the time the newlyweds walked in. Not only had I cleaned it up and put the cornbread batter into the oven, but I’d stopped screaming at myself. It was as though I were yelling at someone else. “I can’t believe what an idiot you are!” — expletive-laden variations on that tune. “Even a five year-old would have known better!” It really did make me feel better, if only by occupying my mind while my hands bent to the drudgery of wiping up one of the two things that you don’t want to drop on a kitchen floor, eggs and oil.
By five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, I’d tidied the apartment as usual, and also whipped up some beet borscht for dinner. I’d begun to set the table. And I’d started to feel very sorry for myself. All I wanted to do was to curl up with Dostoevsky’s Demons. Kathleen suggested that we make a reservation at a local restaurant, but I was too conscious of the expensive tenderloin that I already hadn’t done anything with the night before. So I pushed on grimly. Once I’d finished setting the table, I felt much better. I saw that there was nothing to do but sauté the beef and wait for the sauce — a combination of wine, stock and cream — to boil down, so that I could stir in some Roquefort cheese.
This morning, I woke up resolved to have breakfast at the coffee shop across the street, but I changed my mind an hour or so later, when I divined that Kathleen really needed to stay in bed. After two rather vinous evenings, my head was far from clear, but perhaps that was for the best. I may have forgotten where the gelatine was, but my hands knew how to load the dishwasher, make coffee, and sizzle some sausages. (I was even up to squeezing a bagful of oranges.)
If I weren’t so tired — as it happens, I’m overdue for a B-12 shot (my gut doesn’t absorb this essential vitamin) — I’d be in the kitchen now, consolidating the weekend’s experiences, or at least cleaning the refrigerator. I am still looking for what I call my blogger’s kitchen — an ideal place that holds nothing but what’s needed to make the next meal. If you know a sorcerer who can arrange such a marvel, please let me know.