Cooking Dinner

 

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This story was provided by Krista A. Thank you Krista!

 

Dead of winter.

 

All the stores were closed.

 

I was in the kitchen, alone.  Danger!

 

My then boyfriend’s (now husband’s) parents were coming over for dinner.  I was cooking.  And I don’t cook.  My grandmother’s words were echoing in my head: “An Italian girl that doesn’t cook?  What a disgrace”.

 

Beads of sweat were forming on my brow as I raced from one end of the kitchen to the other trying to remember the ingredients from the recipe that I saw on The Food Network for “40 Clove Garlic Chicken”.  (Unlike a good Italian girl, I didn’t have great grandma’s recipes committed to memory.  I was winging it!)

 

Well, I obviously needed 40 cloves of garlic.  Check.  Olive oil?  Of course!  My grandmother used olive oil for everything.  She even put it on her face every night before she went to bed.  “It keeps you younger for your husband, Krista darling,” she used to say.  Oh God!

 

Back to the recipe.

 

Four people for dinner.  At least four pieces of chicken.  But just to be safe, I’ll double it.  They may want seconds, right?  Eight pieces of boneless, skinless chicken…check.  Hmmm?  Was it boneless or on the bone?  And I remember the television chef saying something about some sort of alcohol or liquor.  Was it wine?  Red or white?  No, wait, she was Southern.  It was bourbon.  I think.  But all I have is tequila.  So I pour a bit, then a bit more.  (A third dash couldn’t hurt?)

 

Turning on the oven was quite a task.  It was a new oven.  Very digital and high tech.  So I randomly pushed buttons and eventually it managed to get kick-started. The big, shiny beast hummed with enthusiasm, ready for my next move.  But wait!  Was it stove top or oven bake?  Oven seemed right – more even heat, I thought I remembered hearing.

 

After a few hours (and a few glasses of wine), the meal was finally complete and ready to serve.  My guests had arrived on time and I must say that the table looked stunning.  Of course, table décor is where I invested most of my prep time.  I even bought a beautiful tablecloth, with complementing napkins, and pulled together a truly inspired silk flower arrangement.  Eric’s mother commented on the centerpiece and the way it artfully coordinated with the wall trim and furniture details.  No question, I was off to a great start.  We sat and I proudly served them my selection of homemade delectable delights.

   

“Hmmm,” I thought suddenly.  “Perhaps the chicken looks a bit light in color.”  Fear quickly replaced confidence, but I choose to push forward and ignore the obvious, because it was just too late to change anything.  Gulp.

 

As it turned out, the chicken had a disturbing interior shade of pink.  In fact it was raw!  I had turned the oven on “clean”, apparently, instead of “bake” and when I corrected the mistake I somehow managed to shut it down altogether.  And I had put so much tequila in the sauce that I believe my future mother-in-law was getting drunk off the fumes alone. 

 

It was an unmitigated disaster and everyone knew it.

 

But soon we were all laughing about it.  Somewhat awkwardly, but laughing nonetheless.  We ate semi-frozen peas and salad for dinner, but they let me off the hook with big-hearted smiles and lots of sympathy.   Still, it was at that moment that I vowed never to cook without a recipe again!