You may remember the lemon cake incident at the 2005 Karpo summer solstice party or the green bean casserole fiasco for Thanksgiving 2008 at the McQuaid’s. Well, it happened again. Let’s just call it the late-night, chicken pot-pie debacle.
Each of the wenches has her talents. Each of the wenches also has her shortcomings. Becca’s is her inability to civilly stay up past her bedtime or comfortably allow someone into her personal space. Jamie’s is her inability to tolerate repetitive noises or provide a colleague with verbal kudos. Sarah’s is her inclination to attempt the epitome of perfection. Esther’s…well…Esther may actually not have any shortcomings. Mine is cooking.
I’m literally the only one of the wenches that doesn’t enjoy and/or know how to cook. All the others cook for “fun.” Their kitchens are filled with grown-up cooking gadgets like silicone spatulas, oil misters, garlic peelers, and god-forbid, aprons. They might fill some free time on a random Saturday by cooking lasagna, baking sugar cookies or distilling their own lemoncello.
Most people who know me have heard about my (mis)adventures in cooking. Adventures because they usually involve, at a minimum, three excursions to the grocery store. Tonight, I didn’t make three trips to the store (although I probably should have). Tonight, it was more like a three-pot adventure. Let me walk you through the late-night, chicken pot-pie debacle 2009.
Why a three-pot adventure? Because I used three pots where only one was necessary. I have issues selecting the right pot for the job. Maybe it’s because I don’t read ahead in the recipe. You’d think I could eye-ball it while reading the ingredients – 1.5 lb of chicken, 10 oz peas, 4 carrots, 2 onions, 2 cups milk….yep, I’ll need a slightly bigger pot than say the little pot I use to froth milk for my morning latte.
I made my way through the “heart healthy” chicken pot-pie recipe, adding more and more ingredients into my sorely inadequate sauce pan. Why didn’t they TELL me I’d need a huge pasta pot to fit all this stuff in there?! By the end I had to resort to jabbing the peas and carrots with a wooden spoon (as opposed to actually mixing the simmering ingredients together). The little sauce pan did as much as she could to keep the chicken and milk and peas and carrots and onions from overflowing to extinguish the blue flame yet a fifth time. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
No, she can’t. It was time to switch out to a stronger, more powerful locomotive. I attempted to heave the contents of the sauce pan into a bigger (although cold) sauce pan. My arms were shaking and my wrist was about to give out (blast these fancy Calphalons), but I managed to make the transfer. Ahh…. Okay, so where were we? Oh shit. Did I add the wine?
I was supposed to add dry white wine and wait a few minutes until the wine evaporates. Seems like a bit of a waste anyway. Oh well. Maybe I’ll just drink that cup of wine instead. Gives me an excuse to open the bottle at…is it really 11:00 pm?! I’m staying up this late to make a chicken pot pie? Who is this person and where did she hide the flour sifter that has imprisoned the real Natalie? I’m going to kick the shit out of this apron-wearing impostor!
Next, I pulled the herbs out of the fridge. Did I really buy baby dill instead of thyme? This is another shortcoming of mine – buying ingredients that are almost right. Actually, this shortcoming is Jon’s. Mine is trusting him to do the grocery shopping. I’d like to blame this one on Jon, but I do vaguely remember hearing my own voice say “I need dill.” Now, why in the hell would I ask him to buy dill when my shopping list clearly says “fresh thyme?” Real Simple magazine tries to make it…well…really simple for us schmucks who have kitchen handicaps. Not simple enough, I suppose. I think this is the root of my kitchen issues. I can’t follow directions because I can't remember what I’ve just read. Maybe it’s the wine.
Pouring the somewhat mixed mixture into my shallow baking dish, I realize I have once again misjudged the size dish I would need. Another transfer. My pie crust is just never going to fit over this gargantuan crevasse. Maybe if I had bought the pie crust that wasn’t already rolled out into an aluminum pan I’d have at least an ice cube's chance in hell of sealing the crust on the dish. I laugh out loud when I read the next step “cut vents into the crust after sealing the edges.” Vents? Ha! Seal? Ha, Ha!
Each of the wenches has her talents. Each of the wenches also has her shortcomings. Becca’s is her inability to civilly stay up past her bedtime or comfortably allow someone into her personal space. Jamie’s is her inability to tolerate repetitive noises or provide a colleague with verbal kudos. Sarah’s is her inclination to attempt the epitome of perfection. Esther’s…well…Esther may actually not have any shortcomings. Mine is cooking.
I’m literally the only one of the wenches that doesn’t enjoy and/or know how to cook. All the others cook for “fun.” Their kitchens are filled with grown-up cooking gadgets like silicone spatulas, oil misters, garlic peelers, and god-forbid, aprons. They might fill some free time on a random Saturday by cooking lasagna, baking sugar cookies or distilling their own lemoncello.
Most people who know me have heard about my (mis)adventures in cooking. Adventures because they usually involve, at a minimum, three excursions to the grocery store. Tonight, I didn’t make three trips to the store (although I probably should have). Tonight, it was more like a three-pot adventure. Let me walk you through the late-night, chicken pot-pie debacle 2009.
Why a three-pot adventure? Because I used three pots where only one was necessary. I have issues selecting the right pot for the job. Maybe it’s because I don’t read ahead in the recipe. You’d think I could eye-ball it while reading the ingredients – 1.5 lb of chicken, 10 oz peas, 4 carrots, 2 onions, 2 cups milk….yep, I’ll need a slightly bigger pot than say the little pot I use to froth milk for my morning latte.
I made my way through the “heart healthy” chicken pot-pie recipe, adding more and more ingredients into my sorely inadequate sauce pan. Why didn’t they TELL me I’d need a huge pasta pot to fit all this stuff in there?! By the end I had to resort to jabbing the peas and carrots with a wooden spoon (as opposed to actually mixing the simmering ingredients together). The little sauce pan did as much as she could to keep the chicken and milk and peas and carrots and onions from overflowing to extinguish the blue flame yet a fifth time. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
No, she can’t. It was time to switch out to a stronger, more powerful locomotive. I attempted to heave the contents of the sauce pan into a bigger (although cold) sauce pan. My arms were shaking and my wrist was about to give out (blast these fancy Calphalons), but I managed to make the transfer. Ahh…. Okay, so where were we? Oh shit. Did I add the wine?
I was supposed to add dry white wine and wait a few minutes until the wine evaporates. Seems like a bit of a waste anyway. Oh well. Maybe I’ll just drink that cup of wine instead. Gives me an excuse to open the bottle at…is it really 11:00 pm?! I’m staying up this late to make a chicken pot pie? Who is this person and where did she hide the flour sifter that has imprisoned the real Natalie? I’m going to kick the shit out of this apron-wearing impostor!
Next, I pulled the herbs out of the fridge. Did I really buy baby dill instead of thyme? This is another shortcoming of mine – buying ingredients that are almost right. Actually, this shortcoming is Jon’s. Mine is trusting him to do the grocery shopping. I’d like to blame this one on Jon, but I do vaguely remember hearing my own voice say “I need dill.” Now, why in the hell would I ask him to buy dill when my shopping list clearly says “fresh thyme?” Real Simple magazine tries to make it…well…really simple for us schmucks who have kitchen handicaps. Not simple enough, I suppose. I think this is the root of my kitchen issues. I can’t follow directions because I can't remember what I’ve just read. Maybe it’s the wine.Pouring the somewhat mixed mixture into my shallow baking dish, I realize I have once again misjudged the size dish I would need. Another transfer. My pie crust is just never going to fit over this gargantuan crevasse. Maybe if I had bought the pie crust that wasn’t already rolled out into an aluminum pan I’d have at least an ice cube's chance in hell of sealing the crust on the dish. I laugh out loud when I read the next step “cut vents into the crust after sealing the edges.” Vents? Ha! Seal? Ha, Ha!
I open my circa 1967 oven breathing 400 degree heat all over my kitchen and pop onto the rack the final baking dish containing this blasted chicken pot-pie. Things are looking up. The oven door didn’t fall off. I set the timer (a timer that has mysteriously stopped beeping to alert ill-fated cooks that their dishes might be ready to come out of the oven). Geez, I hope I don’t space out when 40 minutes gets to zero.
Meanwhile, it’s past midnight, and I remember that I’m supposed to bring vanilla wafer cookies for Kate’s preschool sock-hop tomorrow afternoon. Who the hell am I and what have I done with my former self? Better question…how long has this timer been at zero?
Oh sh…
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