Roasted Dinner… oops


I have just cooked a roast dinner. Most of the time I could say I am a  good cook. Not today it would seem. My other half came home tonight desperately hungry and I served her up something I wouldn’t have fed to a dog – unless that dog were starving of course.

I roasted my dinner. I properly incinerated the fuck out of it. I can’t understand it. I started cooking at 4pm. I peeled and par boiled the spuds, prepared the meat (pork incase you were wondering) and mixed up my batter mix and put that in the fridge.

At half past four I put my potatoes in the oven and my meat and then… ah… hang on…

That would explain why, at five thirty I had perfect spuds and a half-cooked joint. It would also explain why I forgot to take out said spuds and left them in with the half-cooked joint. Buggery on a stick.

So, when I came to serve it up, which was coincidently about the same time Jemma walked in through the front door, well lets just say she was less than impressed by what I pulled out of the oven.

The meat was a black shriveled lump. The spuds were like hard little islands in a lake of oil. The yorkshire pudding didn’t rise and remained a soup and the veg… actually the veg was fine.

I would have uploaded a picture but I don’t think you would have been able to name what it was you’d be looking at.

Jemma, bless her, bravely attempted to attack this culinary disaster. Yet, she quickly became disturbed, upset and perhaps a little distressed. Perhaps she thought I was attempting to kill her off?

I can sulk occasionally. Well what man doesn’t? Don’t we have a right to show our displeasure through the medium of sulk? Okay I’m still sulking. It was a fucking disaster. I keep having flash backs of watching Jemma bite into a what she thought was a piece of meat. The myriad of facial expressions that warped her face in the split second she bit down on that potato would have made Jim Carey proud. I have to say I’m proud of her. She kept smiling and telling me it was fine in between involuntary outbursts of  ‘yerrrgh!’ and ‘what the fuck?’.

So I think I set myself a new low in the kitchen today. I swear on the life of Henry (the spider who lives in my bedroom) that I shall never again cook something so rotten, foul-tasting and burnt as I just did.

You can’t see, but I’m actually raising my hand doing the ‘Scouts Honour’ as I say this. So its law now.

M 😦

One response to “Roasted Dinner… oops

  1. Heh Heh Heh….happens to the best of us. It’s a true sinking sensation when you slave over a hot stove to cook up a meal for your beloved and get an Epic Fail.

    She chows down, you can see plainly she fucking hates it, and you think ‘She doesn’t like my burnt offerings, therefore it follows she doesn’t like me either’.

    Could be worse….your mother once came home from work hungry enough to chew the leg off a table and was less than impressed when I presented her with an unopened can of soup in a saucepan. Did any one say ‘Severe Sense Of Humour failure?’

    Like

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