Wednesday, June 18, 2003

Blogging does have a way of filling the time allotted.  One may either wake up at six after a restful night, and spend an hour carefully considering the political and culinary issues of the day, or one may stay up late with Em (and Eric, sort of, except that he crashed out on the couch,) drinking too much and smoking a cigarette or two, then arise after seven and dash out a few desperate lines.  The constant in either case is that one will be late for work. Last night was steak (insanely expensive steak, I might add) topped with Beurre de Moutarde, which is just butter creamed with mustard and salt and pepper and parsley, and Petits Crepes d’Epinards, Spinach Pancakes.  Not a difficult meal.  And I didn’t get home late or anything.  I simply fiddled.  Fed the snake – who ended its five-month fast after the warm snap last week – cleaned the stove top.  Eric vacuumed.  We sat around and shot the shit while I lackadaisically boiled some spinach.  In the end, there was no reason at all why we had to eat at ten o’clock at night, yet eat at ten o’clock at night we did.  It seems that Mastering the Art of French Cooking, as well, fills the time allotted. While Em and Eric sat around the kitchen discussing the democratic candidates, on which subject I have no opinion except that one of them had better win, and the ins and outs of moving to New Zealand, where people are sane, or at least benign in their insanity, I whipped up the aforementioned Beurre de Moutarde, boiled and drained the spinach, made crepe batter in the blender with a half cup of water, half cup of milk, two eggs, salt, cup of sifted flour, and two tablespoons of melted butter.  I finished it, then realized I’d forgotten the spinach.  I insouciantly dumped in the squeezed fistful of spinach, and blended a bit more.  Spinach crepe batter.  In a half-hearted nod to Julia’s instruction that the crepe batter be chilled for two hours, I stuck the batter in the freezer for probably all of fifteen minutes.  I heated up the skillet, rubbed a slice of bacon around on it, and after the inevitable initial stuck-on failure and subsequent skillet washage, proceeded to turn out six gorgeous Petits Crepes d’Epinards.  Actually, they were fairly strange looking – bright green, flecked with brown.  But they were strange in a great way, and they tasted good as well – even the fucked up one, which we noshed on while I seared the steaks and we made up the last-minute-I-forgot-thanks-god-for-Uncle-Ben’s-converted rice.  They steaks were yummery with the Beurre de Moutarde, just the touch of mustard and fat of the butter to bring out the flavor of the, I must say, pretty perfectly medium rare steaks.  We put the butter on the rice as well, which made the rice taste like, well, butter and mustard.  The Petits Crepes d’Epinards were great, too.  Julia says you can of course fill them up with some creamy filling, but I like them just the way they are.  Funny how creamy fillings just don’t push my buttons much anymore.  Jesus, I’m so afraid that once this thing is over I’ll morph into some freak-o vegetarian sushi eater. Nah. So guess what Julie didn’t make.  Again.  God, these goddamned soufflés are kicking my ass.  It’s the going back into the kitchen after I’ve already finished eating, and getting out more appliances, and heating up the stove again – it’s too much to face.  Of course I know I could time it all fancy and get the soufflé in the oven just exactly as dinner is going on the table.  But I’m pretty sure I’d have to stop drinking to do that. P.S. So I have this article in Archaeology Magazine, my dear husband’s magazine – ah, the joys of nepotism.  Here is the abstract, if you’re interested…. 8:02:02 AM    comment []