This Is Why I'm Not On A Cooking Show

On occasion Prince Charming's work takes him to the city.  My work used to take me to the city every day.

But that was before I decided that traffic and crowds and noise and stoplights and taxicabs and my really bad sense of direction were totally gross and I just wanted to stay at home in my yoga pants and flip flops all day, drinking coffee and not paying attention to the rest of the world.

And taking care of kids.

And cleaning.

And cooking.

Which is what brings me to this story.

Prince Charming's work took him to the city the other day.  He called me.

"Hey, I'm about a block away from the market and I was thinking about picking up some fresh fish for dinner. "

Fantastic!  I'm not much for the city, but I love love love the market.

 
Anything you get there is wonderful and fresh and beautiful and local and delicious and...

 "Okay.  I got these really big shrimp.  They're really big.  $22.50 a pound.  I got two pounds."

....holy, freakin' expensive!

"They're called Scampi."

Yeah, I know what that is.  I've made it before.

When was that?

I thought I should probably do a little epicurean research just to make sure I didn't flummox the 22-dollar-and-50-cents-a-pound magic.  I had to call him back.

"How big are these things?  Can I saute them or do they have to go on the grill?"

"No, you can saute 'em."

"Okay.  I've got something from the Contessa I think you'll like."

Anything from the Contessa is wonderful and I'm pretty sure I heard him smack his lips as he hung up the phone.  I always love it when I can give him a little dining teaser that he can look forward to all day.  It satisfies my secret Donna Reed fantasies.

But, then I had a second thought.  The whole point of our new year was to eat healthier, and a stick of butter sauce is not really on my radar.

I reworked the plan.  A healthier version.  With tomatoes and garlic and shallots and white wine to keep it light.  Some fresh parm.  A little Italian seasoning.  A hit of red pepper flakes.

Bam!  Scampi a la Mama Lisa.

I ran to the store to grab a good loaf of bread, fresh herbs, some really good cheese and a great bottle of wine I'd been wanting to try.  I felt very metropolitan in my yoga pants with a bottle of wine, fresh herbs and a loaf of bread in my cart. 

Look at me!  I'm breezy and I could be on a cooking show.... La la la...

He came home.  Through the door, eyes glazed, looking, scanning, sniffing, arms outstretched, half mumbling,

"Butter sauce.....Butter sauce.....Oh.  What's that?"

"This is the scampi stuff that I'm using."

"Have you done that before?"

"Yes.  Don't you remember that Valentine's dinner I made you when were first dating?"

"You mean back when you kept mail and outdated magazines in the oven?"

Okay....maybe he didn't really say that.

He kept watching me, though.  Eying me as I patted the 10 gi-normous shrimp dry and put them in a saute pan with olive oil.

I poured myself a glass of the fabulous wine that I've been dying to try and took a sip, savoring the wonderful fruity flavor and inhaling the shrimpy aroma filling up my kitchen.

Yeowch.  That didn't taste like I thought it would.  Try it again.  Try it again.

Whoa!  Weird.

"Let me try," he said.  I passed him my glass and he took a sip.

"Ugh...Blech!" and he passed it back.

Okay....save face.  Never let 'em see ya' sweat. 

"I think I just have to chill it.  It's great.  It'll be great," and I popped the wretched swill in the fridge, totally bummed, and went back to my shrimp in the pan.

His arms were taut against the counter as I put the shrimp on a plate and added in the ingredients to simmer for the sauce.

He may have even sucked in his breath and held it there for a second as he watched the tomatoes go in.  I'm pretty sure he did. 

I grated in some parm, stirred it around, and put the shrimp back in to finish.

Set the table, drain the linguini, pour the wine, a dash of fresh parsley over the top, and we were in a little business I like to call

Dinner....a la Mama Lisa!

It looked really wonderful.  I have to say.  Beautiful.  Really pretty.

He wound his fork though the pasta, stabbed at a shrimp, and put it in his mouth.

"How is it?" I asked.

As he chewed, his eyes lowered, his head tilted to one side, his eyebrows lifted.  The only sound that came out was,

"Ehhhh...mmhmm...."

Swilly wine and crappy scampi.  I was two for two.

Wonderful.

It couldn't be that bad, right?  I cut into mine and immediately noticed the color.  White on the bottom of the piece, but a little gray on the top.

No.  Not possible.

I took a bite.

Yep.  Totally possible.

I'd been so afraid of over cooking this holy-freakin' expensive shrimp that I actually undercooked it to the point of being raw.

"No.  It's fine," he said.  "I mean, you can eat it raw.  You can eat Sashimi."

I hate Sashimi....but save face.  Fake it 'till ya' make it.

"I think I'll just pop mine back in the pan for a minute.  Do you want me to do yours, too?"

"No," he sighed. ".....It's....It's fine."

Screw that.

Slamming my chair back, I stood, stormed over to the stove, put these stupid, overly priced, totally undercooked, bland little pieces of octopus bait back in the pan and cooked the ever-loving sh....well....You get it, right?

I didn't speak for about an hour.  Not out loud anyway.

I fumed.

I seethed.

I raged a silent rage.

I sneered and pouted and finally said, "I'm sorry dinner totally sucked."

"It just wasn't what I was expecting.  I thought there would be butter."

Yeah, I thought it would be butter, too.....