So, after Alan's masterful event in the kitchen last night (if you haven't read that, read it first), great things were expected for my Sunday roast.
I was ordered out of the kitchen and told not to come back. Fine by me. En-route to the table when he called me for lunch, I walked passed the kitchen and saw a rather anaemic looking thing on the counter - our roast chicken. I had already had one foray into the kitchen earlier, when I noticed that he had already put the potatoes on to cook way before time AND in oil that was obviously not hot enough. I asked why he had put them in so early. The book said allow 40 minutes. I pointed out that that would be for regular sized roast spuds, not the tiny ones he had made.
Well Alan was absurdly proud of the meal he had cooked (look at his face) and that was the main thing. No actually the main thing was that he was doing everything, including the clearing away. What a lovely boy!
He had also set the table, no sitting on the sofa in front of the television when a feast was about to be produced. Please note we have the hard place mats set on top of the soft breakfast ones, he said they looked more cheerful that way, isn't that nice? The kitchen salt and pepper were conveniently set out between us (thank goodness he didn't take the silver ones out, way too much work getting that salt out after) and of course, the wine.
By the time the meal reached the table, I was met with three slabs of the most unappetising chicken you can imagine. The tiny bit of skin on one piece was pale. However, it was nothing to the horror show of Alan's meat, which also had the leg. It was white. I gently asked if it was cooked. Yes it was cooked he replied, but maybe it could do with a bit more time just to brown it! Also on my plate was what amounted to half a potato - apparently there wasn't enough room to cook more than one potato, and as I predicted, they were oil laden from absorbing the cool oil. Yum.
I ate as quickly as I could, leaving some of the chicken, which was also not hot by the time the plate hit the table. Could he have been dishing up in front of the open window perhaps? Look at the far right of the picture, it looks like an open window to me! I also wanted to eat mine before having to watch Alan eat his chicken, which he then agreed was not cooked. He carried on eating it, despite my dire warnings of how bad for you underdone chicken is. When I went into the kitchen after dinner, there was blood on the carving tray!!! I put the chicken back into the oven and told him to let it cook properly. I am going to make it into a pie. Usually I have to fight Alan to stop him taking the cold chicken for his sandwiches. He refused to take some, admitting that it was also tasteless as he hadn't seasoned it properly. I know you all think I exaggerate, despite me telling you at least a million times that I don't, but look at this close up. What do you think?
The funny thing was, he started to turn it around into being my fault. I should have told him that the oven thermometer doesn't work properly - err maybe he just didn't listen to me moaning about it. Then I should have advised him - err, who was thrown out the kitchen with the famous words oft uttered by Alan, I know how to do it? Never one to not kick a man when he is down, I spent the afternoon telling him what an awful meal it was, and then had three visits to the loo to prove it! Funnily enough, Alan normally does a really good roast dinner. I just want to know why my meal was so awful, when he cooked himself a superb steak the night before? Do you think he is trying to kill me off?!
