Well, here it is almost ten pm, and, I have a glass of wine and some sweet, soft melodies to write by...Once again, i don't even pause to get out of my work clothes, I just want to write.
Time to put the Canadian holiday to bed. Only a neurotic cook like me would bring my own spices, measuring cup, and spoons. I really wanted to bring my German chef knife, but i wondered about the border...and EVERY kitchen has to have a good knife, right?
Wrong. Grandma J is a very dear woman, but, if i wanted to commit suicide by dramaticly stabbing myself to death, it wouldnt be with one of her knives. Terrible, dull things, more apt to spread butter then chop with any authority.
Justin and i were welcomed with open arms. I love homes of people who aren't gypsies like me. They always make me a bit sad and needy, but i instantly attach myself.I have always wanted to have a Leave It to Beaver kind of life, and even the illusion of one is a very powerful pull for me. They probably see themselves as boring. I see them as safe and reliable. But, who am i kidding? Safe and reliable sounds good, but, with the life i have led, it would probably bore me to death.
Mmmnn. for dinner I am eating rasberry sherbet, so cold and sweet and clean on the tongue, between sips of wine. It is a dinner best eaten naked with a lover, but, the keyboard will have to do.
I had made a ginger/garlic/pineapple marinade to serve for dinner on Easter Eve, for grilled chicken breasts that had been grilled, sliced on the diagonal, and served atop a salad of romaine lettuce, red pepper slices, mandarin oranges, and pineapple. I planned on buying the breasts in Canada, but, grandma J. had some in her freezer, so, i thought, go with the flow. I marinated them on Friday. Ooops, no grill. Ok, I will broil them, i thought. Oops, the broiler didnt work in the Canadian Stove from Hell. Ok, i thought, i will BAKE the DAMN CHICKEN BREASTS. Even if you aren't a cook, you will realize my dismay that the chicken breasts took ONE ENTIRE HOUR to bake,and the end result was pasty, sick looking chicken breasts, with a horrible texture and taste. Nothing to do but dress the salad with brave little orange and pineapple bits, and the chow mein noodles i had brought from home.
When i shyly told grandma J. the stove didnt seem quite hot enough, and the chicken breasts seems to have an odd texture, she said "oh, well, the stove is 40 years old, and a bit slow, I think, and i believe the chicken breasts might be a bit freezer burned.."
SHIT!!!!!!!I just put a little extra garlic on top of the salad, figuring it would kill germs and mask the taste. I didnt eat the chicken, even though i knew it wouldnt kill anyone. The worst part about it was that they liked it. Even had seconds. But, I KNEW. If it had been my epicurean Italian family, i would have been laughed out of dodge, and we would have ordered chinese. sighh.......
The turkey was what scared me. These people thought i was a good chef. What was i going to do, brown the damn bird with my lighter?? Raw turkey poisening kept flashing through my brain.., with headlines reading something like" American Offensive Strikes Canadian Kitchen, Eight Hospitalized" So, I did the next best thing, I cooked the F@*king bird for seven hours, just to be safe.
While it was cooking, we took a lovely tour of London, Ontario, and the coastal drive of Lake Erie. We stopped to look at Rikk's murals, painted in towns along the way. He is amazingly talented. We got back an hour before easter dinner, and i knew it was perfect timing to steam the fresh asparagus, then dollop them with lemon and butter.
Grandma J. tried to help. She took those lovely, erect stalks of spring perfection, and, with her butter knife, chopped them to bits. After she chopped them, she boiled them to a soft , defeated heap of green .I was apalled. Horrified. I swept them from the water, thew some butter on them, and put them on the table. If they liked the chinese chicken salad the night before, those asparagus would be just fine.
Now, i know i have painted an ugly picture of Easter dinner. But, the people were very kind, and welcoming, and lovely.
I missed my Fortissimo wine. I missed my sisters. I missed the delicate shudders of delight i feel when i feed people food that is worthly of how much i love them.
Crazy? yup, probably. STILL haven't gotten to the nice policeman and the towtruck....
Ah, tomorrows are a wonderful thing........