Pierre, looking very dignified
Sophie
had a gentleman caller tonight, and I’m afraid she’s smitten. His name is
Pierre, but no, he’s not a Frenchman. He an Aussiedoodle. He's a bit younger
than she—almost a year compared to her ten years. In essence, he's a big, goofy teenager and, as his owner says, sometimes quite clumsy. And he’s about half again as
large as Sophie is and probably still growing a bit. But he’s a gentleman. And
Sophie did not try to boss him or pull her diva act. They played, chased, and
had a grand time.
Pierre
belongs to Christian’s college friend, Gary, and they hail from Dallas. Gary
may be old friends with Jordan and Christian, but he and I are bonded by a love
of dogs, a love of retro food—he likes my chicken Divan and tuna casserole, and
a passion for liberal politics. It’s a nice friendship.
Tonight
was Jordan’s birthday dinner plus the Chicken Divan I’d been promising Gary. The
birthday part was great—ten people, salmon spread, meatballs, a green salad, a
fruit salad, and tiny ice cream cones. But the main dish, the chicken I’d cooked
for Gary, was a disappointment, at least to me though others liked it. I think
the problem was doubling the recipe to serve twelve instead of six. Instead of
meat bathed in a rich sauce, we got broccoli in sauce (almost like cheese
broccoli soup) and chicken without much sauce. Gary’s suggestion, which I like,
is to do it next time with thighs—or I have done it with rotisserie chicken and
that might be the answer. But now I have to cook it again to prove that I can
do it. But a single recipe.
I had thought
I had a good lesson in quantity cooking this morning. I sauteed thirteen pieces
of sliced chicken breast—a whole lot easier than pounding halves. Then I cooked
three large packages of broccoli. Then I made the sauce. In the late afternoon,
I put all three together, and apparently that’s where it went amuck. Except
maybe it stayed in the oven too long? Anyway I was a bit disappointed.
Next
time, Gary gets Tuna Florentine, and we will not have any other guests, though
tonight’s was a jolly gathering of a very few of Jordan’s good friends, my
friend Jean, Gary, Jordan, Christian, and me. All people I’m fond of, and the
conversation was lively.
Like
yesterday, it was another day when I had not given myself another chore except
to cook the Chicken Divan—and I could snatch moments at my computer, while the various
components were cooking. Tonight, though the dishes are all done and put away and
the kitchen is clean, I cannot say I have written a word until this blog. That’s
been a thread on a blog I follow: is writing work or pleasure? I finally
decided that for me the two aspects are so intertwined I can’t separate them. Writing
is what I do, it’s my job, and some days it’s drudgery; but some days it is a pure
joy, and I’m not sure how to distinguish the two. Maybe I don’t have to.
I
haven’t written much this past week and won’t in the coming week, at least at
first. This week, it’s been medical appointments and cooking. I’m glad to say
the medical appointments have all come out well, with small, minor concerns
that we’ll overlook in a woman of my age. And until tonight the cooking came
out well—yesterday’s corned beef dinner and the salmon spread served tonight
more than saved my reputation. I would love to get back to writing Monday
morning, but alas! I have an eye appointment Monday, and—dread! —a root canal
Tuesday morning. After that, it’s back to work, but I think I will have to
re-read the work-in-progress (Finding Florence, which was until
recently, Irene Keeps a Secret). I need to reassess the whole thing.
A note
about corned beef: did you know they don’t eat corned beef in Ireland? Or New
England. It’s called a boiled beef dinner, with boiled brisket, cabbage,
potatoes, onions, and carrots. That doesn’t work for me for a couple of
reasons: if I splurge and buy a brisket, I want it cooked long and slow
on the grill or in the oven. If I want a boiled dinner, I want the seasonings
of corned beef (plus the pickling spices, vinegar, salt and pepper and sugar
and, most importantly, ale that I added to it). The corned beef dinner is
thought to be a blending of kosher and Irish traditions, which would logically
trace back to the days of immigrants in the tenements of New York. A tidbit of
history you may not care about, but I find fascinating.
Slainté!
