Disasters

I've been working really, really hard to be better in the kitchen. This is a personal mission I've been on basically since Craig and I moved in together in Atlanta two and a half years ago, for a number of reasons, one being that his mom is fantastic in the kitchen, one being that both of his sisters are great in the kitchen, too, one even who is a certified dietician, and another reason being that someday there will be little ones who are looking up at me imploringly about what's to eat and since my own mom raised me on such healthy cooking and homemade meals and vegetables, fruit (despite my dislike of fruit now, which remains a curious mystery), lean cuts of meat, and little exposure to Oreos, Chips Ahoy, chocolate cake, candy bars and greasy chips as after school snacks, I desire to give my own children (someday) the same opportunity, which is to be reared on a positive diet. All of this said, I still make royal and brutal mistakes in the kitchen. Sometimes it's too much salt. Sometimes it's leaving the salt and pepper shakers on the rear metal panel of the stove which gets hot when I cook and after so much time the rubber stoppers on the underside of the shakers, or just the salt shaker, melts and when I go to grab the salt for pasta water, the rubber stopper falls out and salt sprays across my entire stovetop. Or sometimes it's the case of last night.*While on these diets that we're on, counting "points" like a game and making sure our diet is adding up to a healthy result at the end of the day, I'm fairly concerned about eating out. None of the restaurants in New York boast on being diet-friendly, I can assure. And that's fine, because eating in New York is one of the world's finest and most prized experiences, ever. I say that after a year of doing it and a year of the lbs on my body to prove it. So, in the spirit of sticking with our diets and still socializing, I convinced Craig that our friends Paul and Steph, friends through work and both which (who?) live on Long Island and for whom coming to the City (Manhattan) is an event, not just merely going out, would likely be appreciative if I cooked dinner at home before going to bars. Craig wasn't convinced until I uttered the two words he so loves to hear, "Chicken Enchiladas", because I do make a mad, mean, amazing, unbeatable Chicken Enchilada (all thanks to Southern Living but still, I am the perfectionist behind the apron here). We agreed, high-fived it and went to the grocery store together to find all of the fat-free versions of the ingredients. The day went on and we cleaned the apartment, did this and that, and it became time for me to round up a bowl of light guacamole as an appetizer: avocado, lime juice, hot sauce, Dijon, fat-free sour cream, cilantro, cumin, salt (loved this guac!) and then I began the main course. Paul and Steph jumped on a 7 o'clock Long Island Rail Road train into Penn Station, which is about an hour + away, then took a cab to our place, and the enchiladas were being rolled as they walked in the door. I popped the beauties in the oven, poured my first glass of vino for the evening, and took a break to socialize. Then I chopped some tomato and scallions to sprinkle ontop of the entree, in addition to combining the remaining fat-free sour cream and green salsa.*By the time the enchiladas were ready to come out of the oven, the Goya rice was finished steaming on the stovetop. I hate making rice on the stove. Hate isn't a strong enough word: I loathe making rice on the stovetop. Loathe isn't a strong enough word. Anyway, rice is impossible. It sticks, no matter what smart method you use. It's too quick to steam or it doesn't steam quickly enough. It burns itself to the saucepan. It just isn't easy, at least for me. Particularly when I'm attempting to make flavored rice, I typically suck at the attempt. (Making rice is like pouring a glass of tap water, so I realize I sound very hypocritical when I say I'm getting better in the kitchen and yet I can't make rice. I also can't make hard boiled eggs, so my someday-children will miss out on that, too. That's life sometimes). I digress. After the rice was "steamed" I moved the saucepan to a back burner of my miniature version of a stovetop and I yanked on my oven mitts to remove the enchiladas. I steadied the Pyrex dish on the stovetop, admired the diligence of my work, ladled the green salsa and sour cream mixture over the enchiladas, sprinkled the chopped toms and scallions across the masterpiece, and something smelled weird, like burning. The far left enchilada in the dish was still bubbling. Almost as if in slow motion, I reached to move the dish and it popped, like a gun shot. It was quick, the way glass breaks. And explosive. There is still glass all over our apartment (the kitchen area, anyway). Evidently (although evidently implies that there is a remote chance this isn't true, while it's 100% true) I left the gas burner on the stove when I removed the rice from heat. So when I placed the lovingly prepared main entree on the stove, the far left enchilada not only got a little too much heat from the low heat of the burner, but the Pyrex also took a beating, which yielded exploded glass all over my enchiladas, feet, floor, counter, stovetop and the on-lookers (Craig, Steph and Paul) as we stared at the unfolded disaster.*