Last night, Wolfie worked a late shift on a Sunday and Sunday dinner became my responsibility. I was going to braise some pork chops in the slow cooker and serve them up with mashed potatoes and steamed veggies, but the pork chops that I’d bought and intended were sad victims of the chaos that has been an attempted burglary + Christmas and had been in the fridge for four days past their expiry date. Definitely, definitely not consumable.
Instead, I pulled some skinless chicken breast out of the freezer, filled the slow cooker bowl with an inch of water and tossed in a dash of garlic, parsley. along with a pinch of salt and pepper. It was a winning combination that my grandfather had taught me.
Last night, I steamed the vegetables in the rice cooker. I’d never done anything like that bizarre and yet, it worked. There was an odd hum of hot plastic at one point which made us both worry, but that seemed to subside and the vegetables cooked perfectly. In the end, I put the aroma down as new appliance smell.
As I moved to serve up dinner, I placed the boiled potatoes, milk, butter, salt and pepper in a bowl. As I moved to mashed the potatoes, I realised I had a problem – no sign of the blasted potato masher.
I looked high and low for that thing but to no avail. It wasn’t in the stainless steel utensil holder and it wasn’t in the drawer underneath. Where the heck could that thing be?
Pressed for time, I did what I’d once thought would be unthinkable. I grabbed the metal whisk out of the holder, began softly mashing the ingredients together and then beat it like I’d beaten every cake I’d ever made. The result was smooth and creamy.
I amused myself with the line from Secretary;
Mashed, no, creamed potatoes..
When I took dinner to the table, I set food down with a smile.
“What’s that look about, Mrs S?” Wolfie said cautiously. I beamed, Mrs S was always my ‘other’ name, the one when “Kitten” just wasn’t quite appropriate.
“Oh, nothing, just quite pleased with my creamed potatoes” I said, layering on the emphasis.
“Four peas..” he laughed. I grinned. He knew where I was going with this.
“And as much ice cream as you would like to eat,” he purred.
I bit my lip, even when he was full of flu, my husband still has a silky smooth way with words.