You know that song, by Timbaland? The one that croons all moodily about how it’s “too late to ‘pologize” (I have NEVER heard the “a” in “apologize” pronounced once in the song. Maybe it was ALSO too late to use all the syllables in a given word?)? Well, maybe I should sing it to New Chef, because he stopped me outside before I walked into school this morning to apologize for our confrontation yesterday. He’s actually very fortunate that he was given an opportunity to speak at all, since he stopped me outside, while I was by myself, in the dark, and my reaction in those instances is usually shank first, find out the assailant’s identity second. But my reflexes were dulled by the fact that it was, for all intents and purposes, the middle of the night still. Anyway, the point is that he apologized. He said “what I said was true, but I shouldn’t have said it the way I did, and I’m sorry.” Whatever. I accepted it, apologized for being a baby, and went inside. Because I am a P-U-S-S-Y, and avoid confrontation at all costs. I know, I know, it doesn’t fit with my personality. That doesn’t make it not true.
Today went well, other than that, except for the part where my soup wasn’t quite salty enough for him . Also, my chicken glace didn’t turn into a glace at all, and was basically just concentrated chicken stock, but I knew that before I walked over to his grading desk. We were out of time, and enough water didn’t evaporate in the allotted time. I prefaced it with a “Here’s my concentrated stock, Chef. As you can see, it’s definitely not glace. I’ll manage my time better next time.” See how much of a peace offering that was? He wasn’t very mean about it, but I think that’s because while he was giving the demonstration in the kitchen, my nose burst into spontaneous hemorrhaging for no reason, pouring blood onto my white coat without warning or provocation. I’ve never in my life gotten a bloody nose without bashing my nose first, so I blame it on stress, or possibly sharp little molecules of evil that fly out of his pores while he’s speaking. Eh.
I’m making a turkey glace right now on my stove to make sure I actually can do it given enough time, and am not just a total glace failure (wrist-slitting offense, I’m certain). I haven’t started anything for dinner yet, having run up a hill for a while after school instead of going to the grocery store. I’m pretty much turkeyed-out from all the Thanksgiving leftovers. Plus, I think the leftover turkey has probably crossed over from “hot young thang” to “leopard-print-wearing cougar.”
I turned out a mac and cheese that was so good I have left all of my modesty with the babysitter for the next few sentences so I can laud myself for being a mac and cheese genius. There are worse things to be a genius of, you know. Don’t you judge me! I had a peppercorn pecorino, a wedge of Wensleydale cranberry cheese, a leftover hunk of fontinella, some parm, and a container of leftover MAGIC in my fridge. I made a quick bechamel, tossed in my shredded cheese, some hunks of leftover turkey, and poured it over whole wheat fusilli into a baking dish. The top got covered in breadcrumbs from a stale half-loaf of leftover rosemary bread, and it went into the oven until I had to take it out just in case the nobel prize people stopped by unannounced to recognize my macaroni genius.
Oh, and then an arborio “jambalaya” (don’t argue, it’s possible) made with a basic trinity, canned tomatoes from this summer’s crop, a jalapeno, some assertive cajun spices, chunks of leftover turkey, and some sliced up turkey sausage for fun. I mostly ate the sausage, because I luuuuuurve turkey sausage (kielbasa kind). The green beans were just steamed and then tossed with butter, lemon juice, and garlic. And sea salt. MMMMMmmmmmmmm.
Almost forgot–Tuesdays with Dorie this week was Linzer Sables. Tasty little ground-almond sandwich cookies that I filled with an apple-orange jam. Good stuff, especially after a liberal dusting of confectioner’s sugar.
—Two Hours Later—