I was all consumed with being a mrs-cleaver-mommy yesterday.
For the first time in ages I had no imminent deadlines and other than a house that needed dusting (pure evil) the day was mine! All mine!
The sudden desire to cook was overwhelming. Fresh free-range-corn-fed-no-hormone- chicken fillets from the farmer’s market beckoned me to Indian magnificence. It was all there in my head- a banquet fit for a Maharaja- right down to the home made Naan bread.
Dough was kneaded, breast fillets were caressed in spices and cheesecake was topped with raspberrys (yes I know dessert wasn’t very Indian inspired but who can resist cheesecake???)
The result:
The naan was an epic fail (although it looked great) with a taste somewhere between cardboard and chipboard- and even my basmati was somewhat nutty [insert reality adjective *crunchy* here while I am not looking.]
WTF? I’ve never stuffed up rice before?
The chicken was okay, I guess- but with no tantalizing accompaniments to sop up the tangerine-coloured gravy- it was just sloppy chicken.
Surprisingly however I didn’t feel too disappointed.
Just spending the day with my hands covered in flour and listening to the unique whir from my kitchen aid mixer was soothing to my need-to-cook-soul.
And washing aforementioned mixer after a day of cooking (even if it was a disaster) is so much more satisfying than my of late weekly wiping of dust from her beautiful chassis.
(Dusting, I reiterate, is after all pure evil.)