Thursday, July 02, 2009
Guys, I’ve done it. I’ve actually – actually – fucken honed into my domestic skillz, dog.
I has got skillz in da kitchen, innit.
Seriously. I promised myself I’d host more dinner parties, and not the kind like in the good old days when I heated up a few frozen chicken nuggets, squirted a sneezing of t-sauce on the top and told my guests if they complain, they can fuck right off.
No no, now I’m making something the common man might call an effort.
That menagerie of cold meat and crackers above - that's me starters mate.
I did it just before I went to Turkey – had four friends over. Can only host four, perhaps squeeze in a fifth, at a time, so that they don’t have to chow in the bath tub.
(How did I ever think a piano would fit into my palace? God only knows.)
I bought slices of smoked Norwegian salmon, crisp Melba toast, and layered on the fucken tapenade. And made fucken canapes.
Last night, for my French friend, who leaves tomorrow for back yonder, I did the same, except with prosciutto crudo, spinkled with garlic pepper.
We know how ze Franch love zere garlic, so I thought it apt to make her extremely happy before she gets on a flight home. Through the medium of garlic. Which I would say bonds nations, but then, I’d be wrong.
The rest I need to work on. The one dinner party I whacked three already-made chicken pies into the oven. Last night, I whacked a Woollies soup into the microwave, but then delicately garnished it in basil croutons and feta.
Because it looks good. See? I’m fucken learning. I'm presentin'. Am finding an teensy miniscule droplet of passion beneath my 'I-buy-prepared-meals' exterior.
Even plunged my Brazilian coffee for the first time, after popping the obligatory Diemers cork.
No more chip and dip for my guests! No more ‘Pop in some toast mate, and help yourself to Marmite.’
No no no – I’m embracing my inner Nigella with the need to be AMAZING in the kitchen. Wearing heels and not pregnant.
As my Greek friend put it: try to be ‘experimental and messy with food.’ Then maybe he’ll consider marrying me for the passport.
Next time, maybe I’ll even cook the meal myself! Big T is gunning for a steak from Giovanni’s tonight – cool – no cooking – just masticating and socialising – but next time I might even take on a full on steak.
My French grandmother is a genius in the kitchen. Everything she touches in the way of comestibles becomes instantly and insanely delicious. The genes have been watered down, with a big gap between my mother’s talent and hers and, to finally trickling down to me, someone who can’t be fucking bothered with all this chopping and dicing and sprucing and carrot Julienning and sauteeing.
I’m a changed woman, someone get me an apron – I’m going to master this.
French, over dinner: So Peas, today I had an eppi-fanny.
Peas:…er, I’m almost too scared to ask what an eppi-fanny is.
French: You know, an eppi-fanny. I was sitting zere, and suddenly, out of the bleu, I realized zat I was having a grande eppi-fanny.
Peas: …and that would be….?
French: Zat you can never be too skeeny or too rich. Zat was my eppifanny.
Peas: Oh, EPIPHANY. You had an Epiphany. Thank Christ for that. I really thought there was something wrong downstairs. What a relief! You need to emphasis the ‘Piff’ part of epiphany, seriously, let’s practice, because this word could lead you into all sorts of trouble.
French: Ta mere apoil devant le supermarche.
Peas: My mother stands naked in front of the supermarket?
French: Oui. Eet eez good insult in Franch.
Peas:....isn't it just.