Two gastric bugs later (not the most P.C beginning to a food post) we bring you brother Jordie’s mastercook.
He’s the youngest of ‘contestants’ and tonight is the first night of his beautiful life that he cooks a 3-course meal.
Our place was the location due to budgeting restraints around babysitters and the newborn being newborn and being rather random with bedtime and breastneeds.
Brother Jordie (who’s not a monk, but the next best thing, a doctor) brought much paraphernalia. A paella dish gifted to him by his (we have different Mums, and actually different Dads too – now that will get you guessing) Mum when she found out about our comp. Miguel’s Tapas. A black tablecloth and red napkins, matador-ed onto our oak. Splashes of zest. Candles. Bulbous glass. Red white beer. All came beautifully with Jeremy’s spotified Spain.
Yes, the Spanish guitar picked her way through the night as we toothpicked tapas – garlic prawns and patatas bravas, complete with from-scratch-made chunky tomato sauce (which gave local Tapas restaurant Comida a run for its money).
Onwards to a paella with chorizo, I love saying that with a lisp, a topped with fried chicken nuggets (which weren’t a bit like McDonalds’).
The tinto de verano was a delightful surprise, adding to ambience and bringing a caress of celebration to the end of Queen’s Birthday weekend.
The cinnamon mousse, which was advertised on a chalkboard on our piano stand, was thankfully chocolate and cinnamon. Tastebuds preparing for desert like mousse were quite confused up until the chocolate revealed itself. Yes, this cinnamon (and chocolate) mousse was rather a character. And we’ll leave it at that. I would have been happy for a mexican hot chocolate and called it a spanish one, but now I’m feeling like a reviewer – I don’t know what’s gotten into me.
The night was complete nourishment.
I once again (unfortunately a rare occurrence at present with 3 chil’en under 5) got to look at my husband for a couple of hours. We sat opposite, which I was perturbed about at first, for lack of being able to squeeze his thigh during dinner, but I eventually came round. I got to see him and hear his gentle but strong man voice. See his torso in casual faded brown t. Follow his eyes dance from perplex, sometimes to soft, othertimes to hilarious-ed, to dreamy into mine-y. What a gift for a couple of grown up kids. A man a woman being mother being father. provider. protector.nurturer. teacher. calmer. togetherer.
The black night’s conversation was eclectic and electric as per usual.
From canned debates as to whether cooking meals with canned asparagus and creamed corn can be deemed as to be experiencing bogan tendencies, to whether tuna in a can is just plain not allowed when striving for gourmet (mastercook) levels.
To ‘love languages’. Did we give love through gifts, words of affirmation, acts of service, physical touch or quality time? How then did we receive it? My husband (when pressed) detected he experienced love through food (which I can vouch for). Note to self: Think very carefully before eating leftover rendang.
To the balance of sharing a home and her household chores. He does the outside. She the inside. Why then, the washing an outsiders or insiders domain?
To fake husbands who can freestyle lego.
To innies and outties.
To car rides across France.
To the joys of barefoot running.
To being grateful.
Ah, the life of an adult.
Next stop – the Middle East. Maybe for my gemini birthday? We’ll see.
If you liked this you may like: Mastercook Nights and My Little French Kitchen’s ‘Tian Provencal’ makes an appearance at Coraleigh’s mastercook