I’m thinking he could play sweeper.
Notice how he follows the ball off the screen. Weirdo.
We were invited to a party on Saturday night, one of those bizarre, “theme”parties, if you will. This party, for Véro, was a pot-luck, with the stipulation that everything be meatless. Fucking pagans.
Anyhow, not one to rock the boat, we made sweet potato pot-stickers. I think they were well received, as they disappeared rather quickly. However, there was this atavistic part of me that was calling out, demanding that I handle the flesh of a once-living creature. So, I made duck confit this weekend.
Pretty simple, really. Find a butcher that sells duck legs. Bring it home, trim off the excess skin and fat—there will be a lot of it—and render this fat down over low heat. Meanwhile, rinse the duck legs, pat dry, and rub in a mixture of ground salt, thyme, rosemary, peppercorns, and bay leaf. Cover and refrigerate for 24 hours.
Remove from the fridge, rinse and pat dry. Place in an oven-safe pot (I use an earthenware pot that I got from a Portuguese store). Cover the legs with duck fat, and cook for 12 hours at 190°F (88°C). For this, I usually put it in the oven after supper, go to bed, and wake up to an amazing aroma in the morning. Take it out of the oven, and this is what you get.
I’m thinking of taking one of the legs, shredding the meat, and then adding some salt, pepper and duck fat to the mixture. Cover with caramelised onions, spread on baguette, and my meat needs will be fulfilled.
(And can I just mention that, 11 months out of the year the milliner and I look forward to spending our weekend nights at home, falling asleep at 9. But then, February rolls around and everyone’s having a birthday. This has got to stop.)
Love the music, very Xmal-Deutschlandesque.
That would be the cyclist, in case you were wondering.
This is definitely a tenet I agree with:
Me and the tiger so get each other.
Because the milliner and I are moving into our first place next month, we’re trying to be responsible with our cash. Therefore, we decided to ease up on Valentine’s celebrations, except for perhaps a day here. However, as a wize old man told me, just because you don’t do anything for Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean you don’t do anything, I decided to make the following last night. (I, on the other hand, received a kick-ass card from the milliner telling me how great I was. I’m surprised it wasn’t a novella. I kid!)
- 200 g 70% chocolate (preferably fair trade)
- 200 g salt-free butter
- 250 g sugar
- 5 eggs
- 1 tbsp flour
Preheat oven to 350.
Melt the chocolate and butter in a bain-marie over medium heat. Stir in the sugar, and mix until dissolved. Remove from heat, grab a glass of wine, go watch Jeopardy while waiting for the mixture to cool.
Come back into the kitchen after Jeopardy, and add eggs, one at a time, to the chocolate mixture, stirring well after each addition. Finish off the preparation by adding the flour, blending well.
Butter and flour an 8-inch cake pan. Personally, I used a quiche mould. Pour in the mixture, and cook for 25 minutes. When done, the cake sticks to the sides of the pan, but reduces in size as it cools, so it’s easy to remove from the pan.
Sprinkle with cocoa. Served with quenelle of sorbet.
If this doesn’t make you smile, well, I just don’t wanna know ya.
Walking into a building last night, I was preceded through the doors by a couple of cops. As you walk into this building, you have to go up about 3-4 stairs, then onward toward the elevators. So, I’m staying a few steps behind these two, because, you know, cops.
Suffering from a lazy foot, the guy cop catches his foot on one on the risers, and pretty much pole-axes himself onto the floor. His partner laughs hysterically at him, he laughs at himself, everyone’s happy.
Get to the elevators, and I realise that I have no option than to ride in the same car as them. Naturally, they’re still laughing about this little mishap and I’m standing there, riding that thin blue line of “yes, hee hee, funny,” yet wondering at which point they decide I’m laughing too much.
Thankfully, they got off before me.
Observing the feline these past couple weeks, and here’s what I’ve noticed:
- He’s missing a canine, and has bad dental work overall.
- He’s a chirpy little thing, constantly complaining, but is vague about his complaints.
- He makes it a point to sleep between the milliner and I, ensuring that we not touch.
- Compared with Frances, he’s kinda, well, slow.
- He’s absolutely fascinated with soccer, going so far as to repeatedly whack at the TV. I think he roots for Aston Villa. (Hence my belief that he’s touched.)
- Finally, unknown parentage.
Conclusion? I do believe our cat is British. It’s a burden, but I’ll learn to live with it.