Thursday, June 26, 2003

Oh.  My.  Fucking.  God.  It has only in the last twelve hours occurred to me how much these last two hours are  going to suck. The temperature in my kitchen rose, in that time it took to make Tranches de Jambon Morvandelle (Sauteed Ham Slices with Cream and Madeira Sauce) with rice and sautéed spinach, five degrees.  That doesn’t sound like much maybe, until you realize that it started out at 91°.  And I didn’t even use the oven!  Cassoulet, which is next after one last sliced ham recipe – again with cream, och! – is gonna be a barrel of monkeys in this kitchen.  Mastering the Art of French Cooking Stark Naked and Hosed Down.  It sounds sexy, I know, but it really really isn’t.  The grease burns alone….  And you should see the cats.  Maxine, especially, is acquiring a pinched, bruised look, like an exhausted New Orleans nymphomaniac. So anyway, I made this meal for Eric for his long awaited homecoming.  It’s simple as hell, really.  Just brown the ham in some butter and oil, set it aside, cook some flour and minced shallots in with the oil in the skillet for a few minutes, set aside.  Bring to a simmer a cup of beef broth and half a cup of Madeira, beat in the shallot & flour mixture, and then tomato paste and pepper.  This makes the sauce a nice reddish brown.  Stir in a cup and a half of cream, which’ll make it a nice orangey pink.  Simmer that a few minutes.  Pour over the ham in the first skillet and set aside.  (Actually, I was supposed to stir in some cognac right at the end, but I had no cognac, and there was no way I was schlepping out at 8:30 at night to get some.  Surprisingly enough, Queens Plaza does not support a liquor store – you’d think that would be one sure thing around here.)  Then all you have to do is heat it up – along with the rice you made, and the spinach – when your husband comes home.  Even with the heat, and my measured but borderline obsessive Harry reading – trying to draw it out, but that’s sort of a lost cause with a Harry Potter book, the things read like vodka tonics drink – I managed to have dinner done at a decent hour.  Well, not decent.  But an hour and a half before Eric got home.  I couldn’t imagine why he wasn’t here.  His plane was to get in at nine; I figured he’d catch a cab and be home by something after ten.  But he didn’t come.  I will confess to turning on the television and scanning the news for a plane crash, because doesn’t one sometimes, when one’s beloved is winging home from England and is running a little late, fear for just a moment that he might be burned to a crisp somewhere over the Atlantic?  Or maybe that’s just me.  Anyway, of course he wasn’t burned to crisp, he’d just taken the subway, always a bad bad move.  Turns out he’d been scared by the numbers (or lack thereof) he saw at an ATM machine, looking at our account balance.  He tried to call me, but the pay phone he found – in a really hilariously typical turn of events – had a non-functional number 3.  3 being the very last digit in our home phone number.  See, that makes me laugh.  But the point was he got home, and he’s never leaving again, if I can help it. Too bad, though, that it’s so hot we adhere unpleasantly to one another when we hug.  Uggh.   8:01:44 AM    comment []