Lamb Ragu
We had
a domestic invasion of sorts this past week. Some critter died either under the
kitchen in the main house or in the wall. The result was an insufferable odor
that lingered for days. And made Christian reluctant to cook when he came home
in the evening. So I’ve fixed dinner several nights, fixing one old favorite
and trying out three new recipes.
One
night we had chicken pot pie, mostly because I remembered Jacob liked it so
well once before that he used a strawberry to wipe up the sauce. When we told him
that this time, his response was predictable: “That’s gross.” Another night,
chicken piccata. Jacob loves his dad’s version, and I was hoping he would like
mine as well. Actually I ignored the recipe I’ve used for years and tried one I
found online. Because I can’t fit four chicken tenderloins into my skillet at
once and because I was afraid the amount of meat was a bit skimpy, I cut it
into chunks and browned it in two separate batches, then combined it to reheat
in the sauce. Jacob liked it well enough to claim the small bit leftover.
One
night we had a quick and easy lamb ragu—that’s what the recipe said, but when I
cook these days, mostly seated in my walker, nothing is quick. And things get
spilled a lot. But the recipe was fairly straightforward, so the easy part was
true. And it came out with a velvety texture that I really liked.
My
tour de force was a deviant version of skillet spanakopita, and if you read
last night’s blog, you know about it. If not, you can check it out at https://gourmetonahotplate.blogspot.com/. I
don’t want to repeat myself. I posted the picture of it on the Facebook page
for the New York Times Cooking Community and so far I got 170 likes and about
20 comments. I am in danger of getting the swelled head, except I probably have
to credit Jordan’s photography as much as my cooking.
Tonight’s
potato salad is already in the fridge, and Christian will grill our salmon. One thing about quarantine—we are eating well,
and so blessed.
Last
night was leftovers or, as we call it, dinner on your own, because I wanted to
Zoom attend a 6:30 meeting of the Tarrant County Historical Society. I
connected to the meeting without a problem—I really am getting better at this—but
couldn’t figure out why my picture didn’t show. A few minutes in, I was
gobsmacked—isn’t that a wonderful word?—to realize I hadn’t pulled out my
laptop. There’s obviously no camera on my remote monitor, so to participate I
have to open the laptop so the camera can see me! It’s a bit of a problem with my
new computer set-up, but I will figure it out and remember this learning lesson
for when I’m on a panel next week for a big national mystery fan convention.
And
the bar—I’ve not been to many bars in my life. Back when I was single and head
over heels about my first love, they were still called cocktail lounges. I can still
see one in my mind—dark, soft music, leather booths with high backs for
privacy. But bars? The crowded, raucous kind authorities want to keep closed these virus days? Not for me, though my grown kids more than once suggested I might meet an
eligible man in one. Eligible? At any rate, I’ve found online a bar that
intrigues me. It’s the Bookbar in Denver—a wine/book bar. When you belly up to
the bar, you find yourself at a long, chest-high bookcase crammed with books. My
idea of heaven—books and wine. I tried to copy the picture, but the internet
didn’t cooperate. So here I sit with a new book on my Kindle and a glass of
wine at hand. Almost Heaven. (My friend Linda will get that if she reads this.)
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