It has been brought to my attention many times over that I am fancy. "FON-say" is how it is pronounced and the term is usually accompanied by dropping one's chin to their shoulder and adding a tiny eyeroll for effect. It is applied when I throw a party or dinner. I LOVE to spoil my friends with wonderful food and I thoroughly enjoy experiementing with all sorts of new recipes. Anyone who's been to my house will confirm I always say the same thing. " Don't bring anything, just come and be comfortable." This would lead one to believe that it is a lazy slow event. It is for all but one: me. I am usually zooming around at top speed with pots and pans and ovens ALL full. Truth be told, this is what I love to do (almost as much as writing). We all enjoy this joke and I take it as a compliment from those who know and love me. But the truth must come out. I confess. I wasn't always so fonsay.
Just before I got married, I wanted to cook for my in-laws. I wanted to make an amazing meal. The desired effect was that they would roll their eyes and smack their lips, "oooo" and "ahhh" or need a cigarette "afterwards". I wanted to impress them as more than a simpleton from the sticks. I set out to make home-made vodka tomato sauce, creme brulee' and a whole host of ditties...for my "new" family. We were going to have a beautiful Sunday dinner. Saturday night was my night to prepare.
I began with dessert. Creme brulee must be made ahead (in order to set up). Although I have the world's BEST recipe; it is tedious. Never mind. This is for family. They'll be impressed. They'll love it and me. But it failed. It was lumpy and I refused to continue. I sent my husband and his buddy on a beer run and store stop.
While they were gone, I began the sauce so it could merely be heated on the day of the festivities. I was terribly nervous and chose to have everything prepped and ready rather than struggle in a foreign kitchen. There would be five or six of us so I needed to double the recipe. If you've never made vodka tomato sauce; it requires you to flambay. I had never done this. But I have never been a slouch in the kitchen nor been known to turn away from a challenge. I found my perfect tomatoes and the freshest herbs; it was chopping up nicely. I had a gas stove at the time which was also new to me. Since I was stirring up a double batch, I had to use two skillets. Thinking I would save a little time,because I had to REmake dessert, I decided to make both batches simultaneously. I poured the vodka into the skillets, unknowingly dribbling some between burners.
With a nervous sigh, I ignited the first pan. Blue flame jumped to attention but then? It dashed across my stove and into the second pan creating a HUGE wall of flames licking and singeing my ceiling. Did I mention I'd never flambayed? Okay well, I didn't know how to stop it either. I began jumping around, scrambling for my pot holders to remove the engulfed skillets; waving and whooping like Betty Boop during a Carmen Meranda song. THEN the smoke detectors went off...ALL of them! This wouldn't have been so bad if it weren't ten o'Clock at night and we didn't live in a condo with rice paper walls. So now the neighbors knew or were at least awake to see the fireworks. What a lovely way to make friends. Unable to find my potholders, I reached into the Pasta dish from Hell, shoved the blazing Cephalon meteors to the back burners and since I could now see the knobs on the stove (my eyelashes and eyebrows no longer hindered my vision) I shut off the gas. In the air lingered the faint aroma of a "crispi" martini and some sort of blackened tomatoes. My husband and his friend burst into the house carrying beer and the makings of my second attempt at dessert to find me waving couch cushions at the smoke detectors like a matador.
"Are you all right?" my friend asked.
"She's fine." my husband reassured him, handing me the goods and a beer. I slammed it (which tells you something, because I don't like beer AT ALL), wiped my mouth and began all over again.
It was 3am by the time I was finished. All I had to do was haul it to my mother-in-law's and heat it up. I dragged myself to bed exhausted but proud. Later that morning, I got up, got ready for church and headed over to Sunday dinner. I was happy. It was a new day and I had pulled it off. My vodka sauce was finished, correctly. It was exquisite. My dessert was smooth and perfect; not too heavy or sweet. I only had to put it in a steam bath and warm it a bit. I was confident I could do it and they would love me. My brother-in-law was joining us. All the better, he'll love it too.
Dinner was perfect. They complimented me. I sopped up every praise. My husband was proud. I warmed dessert and brought it out. One bite. My brother-in law took one bite. He thought about it, cocked his head and said; "What's in here? Bacon bits?"
I was speechless. I was destroyed. But Cheech jumped in as did my in-laws. "Nooooooo. It's SUGAR. This is wonderful....." and we continued. But he wasn't finished with me for as he swallowed his last bite he smiled a charming welcoming smile and purred; "That was, without a doubt, the BEST rice pudding I've ever had."
My husband got up, opened a beer and handed it to me. This fancy little lady slammed it right outta da can.
For my Yaya's,
with love,
Contessa
