Worlds Converging

One of the things I like about this blogging business is that I can artificially compartmentalize my life in a fictional sort of way - I can talk about food and cooking and all things good here and talk about ice hockey, knee injuries and all things bad on my other blog.

But sometimes, there's no keeping things separate. Take the other night, for instance. I came home from work intent on fixing supper for my beloved and myself, but not everything always goes as planned. Not every culinary adventure can be executed as magically and flawlessly as our pre-Christmas Truffled Lobster Risotto feast, for example.

On the recent night in question, my intent was to prepare a simple supper - broiled pork chops, potatoes au gratin with sheep's milk blue cheese, leftover steamed broccoli with a drizzling of leftover saffron aioli. But things started to go awry from the beginning.

First, it took me longer to get home, into the house, and started with my prep work than I'd planned. I didn't begin until a little after 7pm. I knew the pork and the potatoes would take at least a half hour. I was hungry. More than hungry, actually, and so was my better half. I got going. Broiler on. Potatoes peeled and sliced, garlic minced, and both tossed with cream, salt and pepper. Everything in the oven.

I'd thought that the broiler would be hot enough to cook the potatoes, covered, while the pork cooked. First mistake. I thought that the oven fan was actually vented, which it appears not to be. Alas. Second mistake. I had to run upstairs at one point to kill the smoke detector using a letter opener, because I couldn't actually reach it and there was nothing to stand on.

I'd bought a new kind of wine - French, liked the label, chickens on it - third mistake. It was hard to open, I cut my fingers on the metal wrapper that covers the cork, and then, after all that work, discovered that there was no cork. Not even a screwtop. Nothing. I couldn't bring myself to believe that even a cheap french wine was meant to be sealed by tin wrapper alone and so I poured that wine down the drain in frustration and started with another bottle.

Meanwhile, the pork came due, but the potatoes were still utterly uncooked. I started cursing maniacally. The pork came out. The oven was reset to an outrageous 510 degrees and the potatoes stayed in. Distributed the broccoli on two plates, made a couple of trips back and forth to the microwave to try to warm the broccoli, without actually cooking it anymore. Tried to bring the aioli up to room temperature without actually warming it. This was about the time I made my trip up to the second floor to battle the smoke detector. I cursed again. My poor wife is witnessing all this culinary cursing chaos from the living room, where she is trying to remain neutrally supportive with her head buried in her People Magazine.

Once I was upstairs slaying the battery, the microwave buzzer went off, as did the oven timer. Came back down. Poured a glass of the new wine from the bottle WITH the cork. Made another trip to the microwave, back via the kitchen island to the oven to check on the potatoes. And then, just as I was stepping around the island, I heard...

(If you want to read the rest of the story, I'm afraid you'll have to go to my other blog - www.creasedge.blogspot.com.)