The Beast invited a friend over last night. This was no play date though–they had music to make: the two of them have been commissioned to create an original score for a dance piece. While they tinkered upstairs with bells, guitars and keyboards, I made a vegetarian cassoulet from a recipe I found yesterday on Gourmet.com. I love real cassoulet, which is essentially the French version of our pork and beans. Usually I have to be extremely drunk to eat the good stuff though because of the all that goose and duck confit (re: unexplainable feather phobia). So this vegetarian version sounded quite good. All I had to do was grill up some sausages on the side, take that half-drunk bottle of Chianti Classico Reserva out of the fridge so it would be an appropriate temperature in time for dinner, and I’d come off looking like a real good common-law fake wife in front of the Beast’s buddy.
The recipe called for a bread crumb crust. I happened to have half a loaf of that Epi multigrain bread that I’ve mentioned before (it’s well worth the $5.50 it costs at my local cheese shop). I just cut it into bits, blitzed them in my food processor and baked it along with some fresh parsley, salt, pepper, garlic & olive oil. The cassoulet itself was very simple to make, and it doesn’t take an engineer to grill sausages. Dinner was ready in no time.
The best part was calling the Beast and his buddy down to eat.
Foodie: (from the bottom of the stairs in an extremely feminine voice) Oh boys, dinner’s on the table.
It felt so sensually domestic, even though I was wearing a dirty jogging suit. And even though the cassoulet was inauthentic by French standards, the Beast and I may have fooled our dinner guest into thinking that we eat in the dining room every weeknight with real linen.
Beast: This looks like a penis on a plate.
Foodie: Excuse me?
Beast: It’s really good though.
After dinner, the boys continued to play with their instruments while I watched America’s Next Top Model. I drifted off though (re: too much Chianti) and had a dream starring Beppi Crosariol, the Globe and Mail’s wine writer. Nothing salacious to speak of happened, unless you call me dressed in a fuscia-coloured unitard trying to impress him in a blind Barolo tasting lewd. In reality, I actually did try to impress Beppi about a year ago at a Biodynamic wine tasting. I was covering the piece as a freelancer, and was asking John Williams of Napa’s Frog’s Leap a few questions when I noticed that Beppi was right behind me listening in. Then I got nervous because it’s not like I’m a real-life journalist with real-life questions. I think I tried to make really cool sounding observations, like, “your wine is so smooth man. You can so taste the terroir. How do you do it?”
Anyway, this has nothing to do with the meal. Although in my dream I looked like a sausage in that unitard, and I did serve sausages for dinner. So who’s laughing now? Booyaka.
Categories: At Home