Even though Mondays no longer spark the opposite of joy, and even though Saturdays are no longer reluctant shopping days, there’s something about Sundays that still stretch languidly, with ample time to putter in the kitchen. So that’s exactly what I did on the weekend.
First order of business was to defrost half a prime rib roast that was in danger of losing its lustre. When I bought the entire thing months ago, the butcher practically rolled out the red carpet. Would I like it from the first five ribs? Whatever. Would I like the ribs removed and tied back on? No. Would I like the fat scored? No. He seemed rather dejected at my lack of appreciation for butchery finesse as he wrapped up my prize in three layers of waxed butcher paper, printed off the three-figure price tag, and bid me happy roasting. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I don’t eat meat.
Anyhow, the first half of the roast was well appreciated by my usual Sunday dinner guest in early December. (And yes, Yorkshire puddings were involved. Those, I do eat). But now it was time to deal with the other half. The carrots and onions went in the pan to roast along with the cow, the mashed potatoes were readied, and the Yorkshire batter prepared.
Next, in the true spirit of Sunday in the kitchen, I went about making Monday’s dinner, which would also feature mashed potatoes: a lentil shepherd’s pie. I simmered the dried Du Puy lentils in ample boiling water, like pasta, for thirty-five minutes. In the meantime, I diced carrots and onions, soaked some dried shiitake mushrooms, and made a slurry of vegetable stock, cornstarch, and Worcestershire sauce. I drained the lentils and assembled the base of the pie with the other ingredients in a vintage Pyrex casserole dish. I dolloped the top with a good amount of the previously prepared mashed potatoes (butter, cream, sour cream, garlic powder, Dijon mustard, in case you were curious). I grated an appropriately decadent amount of aged cheddar cheese over the creation and put the lid on.
I took one step away from the counter near the sink to the fridge door, where the casserole would relax until Monday dinner. That’s when it all went sideways. Literally. Something slick on the marble floor attacked my Birkenstock-clad feet. My left ankle went over and the dish jumped out of my hands, crashed on the granite counter, and the contents cascaded down the row of drawers beside the sink. Shards of (supposedly indestructible) Pyrex littered the floor and blanketed the mound of the remains of tomorrow’s dinner that lay in the middle of the kitchen.
When I stood up, I was miraculously unscathed, except for a sore ankle that was bound to soon morph into a technicolour bruise. I began the clean-up task with a healthy wad of paper towel, and mindful of the fact I was serving a roast beef dinner in twenty minutes and still needed to make gravy, started with the congealed lump of lentil mixture that had landed right in front of the oven. Then I noticed there seemed to be something that looked like blood on the paper towel. And I was pretty sure that (unlike prime rib), lentils are blood-free. That’s when I clued in: my entire left hand was dripping with red rivulets.
When I doused my hand with water, there were only about half-a-dozen shallow cuts. Helpfully, none of them were in good band-aid locations: the end of my pink finger, the web between my third and fourth finger, the knuckle of my middle finger, the palm of my right hand just to the left of the thumb. I patched things up as best as I could. The show needed to go on.
People got fed. Leftovers were dispatched. But seriously! I cooked the lentils myself! I soaked (expensive) dried mushrooms! I repurposed mashed potatoes! I did my future self a dinner favour on Sunday time!
Takeout pizza tonight. And maybe forever more.