Musing: Kitchen Mishap

When I worked in Corporate America, I traveled extensively. Nearly every week, I was on airplanes traveling all over the world, so I missed most dinners at home. Today, my Ever Patient Partner In Life and I have dinner together every night.

Some nights, we eat out. Others, we cook. We enjoy concocting our meals, starting with recipes and adjusting as we see fit. And we each have our roles.

EPPIL is the chef, responsible for the main courses. I am the sous chef.

As I’m apt to do, allow me to share a little etymology. Sous is a French word meaning below or under and comes from the Latin subtus or in a lower position. So, yeah, my job is to do as I’m directed. I’m fine with that.

Specifically, I’m responsible for the prep work, sauces, and cleanup.

This long-winded introduction is my weak attempt to explain why I shouldn’t be blamed for this particular kitchen mishap. I haven’t been successful with this defense, but I’m trying.

My work on the night in question lay spread in front of me for slicing, dicing, and mincing. EPPIL prepared a pot of boiling water, preheated the oven, and then peeled a ginger root so that I could mince it at the proper time.

I set up my cutting board, extracted my knives, and started, as I often do, with the potatoes, cutting them into small chunks. They were added to the boiling water while I minced the garlic and shaved the Parmesan to be added with butter and cream for mashed potatoes.

Brussel sprouts were trimmed and sliced, tossed in a light balsamic, and placed in the oven for roasting.

Peppers were diced, onions sliced, and mushrooms trimmed and sliced for sautéing a vegetable medley.

And, finally, I turned my attention to preparing the sauce of honey, hoisin, soy, and chili-garlic for the pork chops. I just needed to mince that ginger to get started.

Except I couldn’t find the ginger.

At a moment like this, you’re faced with a choice. If I announce that I can’t find the ginger, EPPIL would turn around and spot it in three seconds or less. Trust me, I know this.

Years ago, I was standing at a supply closet in an office looking for a particular item. I called out to the office manager that I couldn’t locate it. She walked over, moved one item, and pointed. She returned to her desk, muttering how men, particularly her husband, always open a door, announce they can’t find something, and wait for it to magically appear.

I’ve met her husband. A highway patrolman. Can spot a criminal a mile away. Can’t find anything in the kitchen either. 

Anyway, I opted for searching rather than asking for help. I moved vegetables around. I checked the trashcan. Not only that, but I even opened the knife drawer on the off chance I put it there. When I exhausted every option I could think of, I reported the missing ginger.

EPPIL searched. We both searched. We both remember EPPIL peeling the ginger root and placing it right there on my cutting board. Right beside the potatoes I was cutting.

Oh.

A peeled ginger root bears a passing resemblance to a diced potato.

Don’t argue. Go with me on this.

We fished through the boiling water of potatoes. After a bit of searching, we found a ginger root. Extracted it. Diced it. Made the sauce.

The mashed potatoes, of course, had a distinctive ginger flavor. For the record, not bad. We might try it purposely next time.

On The Website This Week

Much of my reading this year has focused on non-fiction and craft books, so my novel reading time has been slim. I did, however, finish Jeff Abbott’s Ambush of Widows this week and think you might find it enjoyable.

Gratuitous Dog Photo: Those Accusing Eyes

One look from His Royal Highness Little Prince Typhoon Phooey speaks volumes. He expects his world to work always in his favor.

Until Next Monday

Remember to follow the recipe this week. Or not. Sometimes, the mistakes make life more exciting.

See you next Monday.