Reminds me of the time I, total fool, invited my departmental friends/associates and some of my personal friends, a total of 125, to a party at my one bedroom apartment. Yes. 110 of them showed up, I counted later. My landlord and her husband lived downstairs.. luckily I had invited them, so it wasn't a total surprise. It was an oldish spanish style house with my apartment above, with at least outside steps and a driveway to hang out at. One hell of a party, and no disasters. I cooked for it, and had mostly enough, and people brought other refreshments. So, not so horrible except that I'll never forget my total tharn at the sheer density of people dancing in such a small space.
Then there was the dinner party a few years before that. I was still living at my parents' place, just finishing university, probably late that June. I had met a fellow I really liked, and he me, and a girlfriend was mad over so and so. Good reason for a dinner party, the first I ever had. So I invited three more couples and all said yes. I dragged the dining room table to the back yard grass and put a dark prussian blue table cloth on it, plus dinnerware. Got good steaks for all, and those were years of living on quarters. That took a couple of weeks of work paychecks for me, huge deal. Our dates showed up but no one else did, and none of them called. I found out years later that one of the people left her husband that weekend, and I don't remember the other reasons, mostly valid. I just remember that table on the lawn in the evening light.
(I'm sure I've told about those episodes before on a2k too. Oh well.)
Very entertaining tales hereon. A poor hand at cookery, I can't add much of note. Actually, a poor hand is a bit of a stretcher. The fact is, I'm not permitted to cook anything, other than a bag of popcorn, and only that if I stay put in front of the microwave to account for every pop.
I once cooked an oven glove. It was by mistake. 'Twas on a Christmas morn, many and many a year ago, in England. House full of family, and I was in charge of making wassail. Truth is, nobody apart from me wanted wassail, so naturally it was up to me to make it. I had a huge pot gurgling away on the stovetop from which I periodically drew off a cup or two to make sure it was developing potably. Right strong stuff it was, too.
Anyway, at some point I was assigned the task of rooting the bird out of the oven in order to spoon drippings from the pan bottom all over it. There's a name for such a procedure but thankfully I've forgotten it. The point is, somehow or other an oven mitt got bunged in with the bird. I'm pretty sure one or the other ignited, as there was a lot of smoke involved, but as I was shoved aside while others tended to the matter, I couldn't see, that and having somewhat oversampled the wassail. Smelled like hell though. Probably a damn sight worse than burnt sweet potatoes.
Spooning the drippings over the bird
basting.
Most people use a turkey baster for that.
Some people use them for another purpose.
When I first glanced at the title of this thread I assumed it was something boomerang had written. Is martybarker now a neophyte of boomerism?
It's a tough act to follow, but this initial effort was nothing less than brilliant.
gustavratzenhofer wrote:When I first glanced at the title of this thread I assumed it was something boomerang had written. Is martybarker now a neophyte of boomerism?
It's a tough act to follow, but this initial effort was nothing less than brilliant.
I see the resemblence now. I think I should have kept a journal of all the funny things my son has said in his lifetime.
Debacle wrote:Very entertaining tales hereon. A poor hand at cookery, I can't add much of note. Actually, a poor hand is a bit of a stretcher. The fact is, I'm not permitted to cook anything, other than a bag of popcorn, and only that if I stay put in front of the microwave to account for every pop.
I once cooked an oven glove. It was by mistake. 'Twas on a Christmas morn, many and many a year ago, in England. House full of family, and I was in charge of making wassail. Truth is, nobody apart from me wanted wassail, so naturally it was up to me to make it. I had a huge pot gurgling away on the stovetop from which I periodically drew off a cup or two to make sure it was developing potably. Right strong stuff it was, too.
Anyway, at some point I was assigned the task of rooting the bird out of the oven in order to spoon drippings from the pan bottom all over it. There's a name for such a procedure but thankfully I've forgotten it. The point is, somehow or other an oven mitt got bunged in with the bird. I'm pretty sure one or the other ignited, as there was a lot of smoke involved, but as I was shoved aside while others tended to the matter, I couldn't see, that and having somewhat oversampled the wassail. Smelled like hell though. Probably a damn sight worse than burnt sweet potatoes.
Did the glove taste good?
Sounds as though we are all veterans of many a dinner horror!!!!
dlowan wrote:
Did the glove taste good?
As I recall, it was rather tough. But the stuffing was okay; perhaps a tad undercooked, to an overly nice critic.
Debacle wrote:dlowan wrote:
Did the glove taste good?
As I recall, it was rather tough. But the stuffing was okay; perhaps a tad undercooked, to an overly nice critic.
Ah......I love a man who uses "nice" correctly.
Laughed out loud at your first yarn, Deb!
I, of course, am a paragon of virtue, and an exceptionally good hostess, so this sort of thing just doesn't happen to me, thank goodness (like hell it doesn't!)
There are some legendary yarns, one of which was repeated back to me the other day, and this person, who I had never met before, heard it from someone else who wasn't even there. Craziness gets around, ya know!
