For those who have not seen a Bhutanese meal, now you have. Red rice (small serving there), dried beef, chili and cheese, and a pork dish (with extra fat).
Now you know what to expect. Expectations cause us grief.
When I cook, it is hard to free myself from the imagined product. The outcomes in the kitchen over the last few days have been beyond imagination. Nightmares.
First was a no-knead pizza recipe. Looked fantastic. By Jim Lahey, the guy who got the no-knead bread revolution started. The dough was very easy, and very good. My production of the potato topping was ... not good. I blame the oven. Thin slices of potato, soaked in salty water to dry them out. Then mixed with onion and olive oil. Placed on top, then baked. After ten minutes, the base was done. Smoking. Hot. About to turn to charcoal. The potato slices were nowhere near done. When I reached for the fish slice, to try to prize the pizza away from the pan, it was gone. Things often move around in the kitchen. So I had to improvise with a knife. Bits of the pizza flaked off. Others remained, doggedly attached. So much for dinner. Waste not, want not though (Dad would be proud to see me forcing it down). If I had expected a very crispy, black bread wafer with chunks of raw potato, I would have been delighted.
Dessert was my self-saucing chocolate pudding. What was left after most of it dribbled over the sides of my too-small dish. We scraped some nice pieces off the bottom of the oven. The cream was meant to be whipped, but refused to cooperate.
Was I silly to try sticky buns the next day?