December 2014
When You Burn The Roast, Don't Call It a Mistake. Stick That Sucker on a Sword and Serve Shish Kebabs.
"Okay… Dill weed… Beau Monde… parsley… onion…" I muttered as I measured ingredients into a custard cup. "New jar of mayo on the counter… and…blaugh!"
Ducky looked up in surprise. "Whatever is the problem?" I held out the half-used container of sour cream and he peered inside. "Oh. Lovely colors," he said with a tiny shudder.
"Fortunately I can 'make do' with yogurt… which… I'm… not… seeing… Great. Like I want to go out at night the week before Christmas?"
"Agreed." The party wasn't until Saturday, but I always do dips a day or two ahead so the flavors mix and even out. "Perhaps there's some yogurt in the garage refrig—"
"I'll get it!" Nothing like a helpful kid. She had been our prep crew and chief mise en place scullery maid for a lot of the past few weeks. We'd print out the recipe and she would carefully weigh and measure into the table full of prep cups, then X off the ingredient on her list. It was a good exercise in multiplication, too, when we doubled, tripled or quadrupled a recipe. She was running at about 99.9% accuracy; Mom and Dad… not.
She was back in a flash with a giant container of yogurt. "Thanks, Sweetie, I—" I broke off. "Was there any other yogurt?" She shook her head. "Okay… raspberry isn't quite what I need for the dill weed dip—but I was going to do the fruit dip later on tonight, so I'd need it anyway," I quickly added when her face fell. She brightened considerably. "Could you scoot and get me the tubs of blueberries and raspberries?"
With an enthusiastic yelp she whipped out of the kitchen again. Ducky and I exchanged rueful looks. "In her defense, you didn't specify plain yogurt," I said.
"True. But wouldn't that have made an interesting creation if you hadn't checked the label before dumping it in!"