I made an inedible soup last night. Not out of malice, you understand. Helpdesk Man was off at his marvy postmodern Young Vocal Collective practice - although they probably don’t call it “practice”, they probably call it “process” or “experience” or “melding”, ooo - and I decided to make a French onion soup to have with homemade pumpkin bread for dinner. Unfortunately the only stock we had left in the freezer was turkey stock left over from Christmas, and I didn’t get around to tasting the soup before serving thanks to a certain snortlepig. It was only after I’d gagged on the first spoonful that I realised the stock had been made with the brined Christmas turkey and contained enough salt to slay a camel. It was mildly tragic - the delicious jamminess of the caramelised onions could still be tasted, tantalising me, but there was simply no getting the soup down. Helpdesk Man was nice about it and munched a piece of leftover pizza instead, which was good of him considering I’d just mocked him about his marvy postmodern young vocal collective, and had in fact only the previous day ordered the aforementioned pizza under the name of Sven and made him pick it up.
Anyway, it’s a blow to a woman’s pride, innit. I may only be a brainless hussy who can’t remember which is masochism and which is sado-masochism and who’s never been sure what part Japan played in World War Two, but gol ding it, I can make a good French onion soup! Fortunately, today I had the chance to redeem myself by making a French silk pie for Bnonn and Smokey Night.
Bnonn and Smokey Night, incidentally, is what you get when you say plaintively to Helpdesk Man “We never do anything spontaneous any more”. Being both a jewel of a husband and as Aspie a coot as ever broke into a cold sweat over mismatched socks, Helpdesk Man replied smoothly “OK, how about we have a date night every Friday?”. So we do.
Back in our wild and profligate youth (ie. two years ago), Bnonn and Smokey Night could encompass activities as daring as a movie and dinner in town. Since the birth of the snortlepig it’s pretty much invariably having a nice homecooked meal and watching Deep Space Nine or a movie at home, which to the naked eye isn’t markedly different to what we do every other night of the week; but still. We enjoy it. And tonight we are having roast chicken and smeg made to our personally-invented recipe, followed by French silk pie, made by me.
The French silk pie is Pioneer Woman’s recipe, not that she calls it French silk pie, but it is. Making it is an interesting experience. One has to add four eggs to the mixture over a course of twenty minutes, beating all the while. One can only assume that French silk pie came about after the invention of the electric mixer; that, or our foremothers were brawnier than one thought. At any rate, like kneading bread, the beating is vaguely hypnotic and one finds one’s mind wandering… pondering, for example, the difference between masochism and sado-masochism, and wondering what part Japan played in World War Two. Also coming back to reality with a start and noticing one’s baby has been pitifully wailing at one’s trouser leg for the past ten minutes (or two eggs). I may be an English graduate with an impeccable SAT score and, upon reflection, fairly certain convictions that a) sado-masochism is pleasure derived from causing pain to oneself, not others and b) it was something to do with Pearl Harbour, but at times I am a failure as a mother.
But not, let us hope, as a pie-maker. Pioneer Woman’s advice not to read too much into the texture-in-progress of the filling turned out to be sound; I had a nasty moment around Minute 17 when I thought the sugar would never dissolve and the filling would be gritty and Helpdesk Man would stab his fork into my eye and leave me for Martha Stewart, but all was well.