Last night I deglazed a pan with white wine for the first time. I forgot to take the pan off the heat first and experienced a huge burst of alcohol induced excitement among the minced garlic and rosemary. Fortunately I didn't light anything on fire.
It was delicious. I seared two pounds of pork loin in a mix of olive oil and butter until golden on all sides, poked holes in the meat all through, made the above sauce with the drippings and poured that over the meat. I covered it with tin foil and cooked it an hour covered, uncovered it and cooked it an hour more, basting it with the juices.
The flavor of garlic, rosemary and wine was just all through the meat, which was moist and almost tender enough to cut with a fork.
Keith did not like it. He ate it with ketchup.
I am so wasted on that man, I tell you what.
I can make pie crust from scratch, I used to know the recipe for banana bread by heart. I make corn bread, sweet yeast rolls, crisps, cobblers and cookies. I just end up eating it all myself because, guess what? Keith doesn't like baked goods.
I am no longer afraid of large cuts of meat or fish. I know how to make several barbecue recipes from scratch. I can make chicken pot pie with homemade, flaky pastry, chicken I roasted before hand and a white sauce for the base.
And what does Keith like to eat? Spaghetti, that's what. Spaghetti and pizza. I could feed that man spaghetti and pizza for the rest of his life and he'd be so happy he'd burst. So would his pants, I imagine.
I once made a poor man's stroganoff that was to die for. (I may have told this story before, if so my apologies. It's hard to remember after having blogged this much.) It had sour cream, mayonnaise, fresh mushrooms, Worcestershire sauce and the secret ingredient, half a packet of French onion soup mix. I have never, before or since, had stroganoff as creamy, rich and flavorful as that.
And what did Keith say to this masterpiece of home cooked comfort food?
"I don't know why anyone would want to church up Hamburger Helper like this."
That's what he said. First I wanted to hit him over the head with my plate in sheer outrage and then I was swamped with pity. The man has never known a stroganoff other than Hamburger Helper. That was his only context for the dish.
I can't wait until I have children that I can bake cookies for. With my luck, they'll end up preferring Little Debbie's wrapped snacks.
