They say that situations like the one we’re presently living in, can bring out the best and worst in people. I certainly know that to be true when referring to the respective cooking skills in my house.
In case you didn’t already know, I share a dwelling with my best friend, Lynne. In the weeks when restaurants were not open, our kitchen separated the wheat from the chaff. My creations fell under the latter category. While Lynne stepped up her game, trying new recipes and, for the most part, knocking it out of the park, I sat on the couch like Jabba the Hutt, waiting to be fed.
Yes, she had a couple of missteps. In between the meals of fish with veggies or ramen noodle bowls filled with mushrooms, sliced green onion and celery, there was the chicken strips debacle and a pasta dish so peppery, I thought she’d upended the grinder in there by mistake. With the bout of sneezing that followed, I’m surprised Dr. Lee himself wasn’t at the door, waving in the hazmat team.
I think she’d finally had enough of my nonsense, when she set a plate of beef, peas and mashed potatoes before me.
Lynne: “The mashed potatoes are a bit tepid.”
[I took a forkful]
Me: “Is ‘tepid’ Canadian for ‘cold’?”
[She shot me a look and I subsequently dug into the rest of it]
Me: “The peas aren’t exactly sending me to the burn unit either.”
For some reason, she was unimpressed with my observations, which meant that when it came to dinnertime the next day, she was basically sitting, arms folded, in the living room. Vicki had criticised her way into making a meal.
I later described it to my friend, Iris, as ‘hot dog sandwiches’.
“You can’t call them that,” she replied. “Don’t ever say that in New York. They’re just hot dogs.”
“Iris,” I countered, in the tone I reserve for a small child, “I know what hot dogs are. These were hot dog sandwiches. Wieners cut lengthwise and placed between two pieces of white bread.”
“Ohhh…,” came the reply, her voice failing her near the end, implying she was as impressed as Lynne had been when presented with this sumptuous repast.
In my defence, I had offered a selection of condiments including – but not limited to – ketchup, mayonnaise and mustard.
Needless to say, when the restaurants were allowed to welcome guests to their outdoor dining areas, we jumped at the chance. We had a gift certificate to Seven Restaurant at The Ritz-Carlton that we’d won in a raffle a number of months ago. Lynne dug through our boxes of papers like a woman possessed (or one who couldn’t face another hot dog sandwich) to find it, and finally emerged triumphant.
On Sunday, 7 June, she and I headed to Seven for what might have been the best meal of our lives (you can read more about it here). I don’t know about anyone else who has dined out since those restrictions lifted, but everything tasted amazing.
Maybe it was the feeling that things were a bit more normal. Maybe it was seeing other people and chatting to them (from afar, of course).
Or, just maybe, it was the piping hot mashed potatoes and peas.
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