I’ve been doing pretty awesome with the meal planning lately. On Saturday morning, I browse through my current favourite cookbook (they come and go like teenage fashion trends around here)- this week it happens to be 30 Minute Meals by Jamie Oliver.
The 30 minute part is a lie, by the way. But the food is good. I pick four recipes and make a grocery list, and after Little Man’s swimming lesson we brave the crowds to do the weekly shopping. Everything has been going along famously; Big Man even noticed that we haven’t been eating frozen garbage for at least a few weeks anyway.
For some reason this week I picked a “lovely mushroom risotto” recipe. Sounds yummy. Looks yummy in the picture. Seems fairly simple.
I’m so easily fooled.
I know NOW why when you go to an Italian restaurant, a risotto is a MAIN dish. The *%&$ing thing completely consumes you for 45 minutes and you have no no soul left to cook anything else. So…TADA! Mushroom risotto, served solo.
For those of you haven’t been conned into making a risotto, it requires constant attention as you “gently massage” the starch out of the rice with continuous stirring and small additions of broth. Meanwhile you are also chopping herbs, sataying and broiling mushrooms, crushing garlic, squeezing lemon, reading the instructions (written in tiny print for an extra challenge), and somehow conjuring a “brilliant” salad out of random vegetables in the fridge.
I was so distracted during the process I scorched my entire left hand on a fry pan handle and had to complete the rest of the “starch massage” whilst holding a bag of frozen pees. All the while, Little Man, who in all his young wisdom has realized that Mommy is having trouble with dinner, is creating his own kitchen masterpiece in the sink with every dish and utensil that I am not already using.
My kitchen, which is normally cleaned up in “real time” while I make dinner (OCD) looks like a culinary bomb exploded, I’m wearing half the risotto (it splashes if you stir too vigorously), and I’ve accidentally tossed some of my own hair into the salad.
When the *%&$ing risotto is finally done, I proudly present it to Little Man. He spots the bag of pees I’m still holding and asks if he can have some of those instead. He then declares that the *%&$ing (my words) risotto looks like oatmeal (Perfect! That’s exactly what the book said it would be like!) and that he “hates” it. I told him he could go eat the dinner he made in the sink and settle down to enjoy my hard-earned meal.
Holy fuck is it good. Gold medal for me.
I think I’ll make it again next week.