Burnt Offerings

When our dog sitting friend was with us the other weekend, Himself decided to get some lamb cutlets for him and Pam for the Saturday evening. (I don’t eat much meat and had opted to have the previous night’s leftovers.)

Himself was going off to a jazz session and so couldn’t drink, so when Pam expressed interest in having a quick early snifter in the pub, we arranged that Himself should eat first and we’d eat when we got back from the pub.

We returned from the pub having had a good natter with another friend, a good laugh and ready for some grub. Himself was leaving as we returned and looked somewhat pissed off.

“I ended up having to nuke my cutlets (in the microwave) and they still wouldn’t cook,” he said, bottom lip protruding.

“Microwave?” I said uneasily. “How long did you cook them for?”

“Oh, about half an hour,” he said. “They were terribly tough.”

My heart sank.

“Anyway, I’d better go now. I’ve cooked Pam’s cutlets for her – they just need heating up.” And with that he disappeared.

Just as well. With some trepidation I opened the grill and saw two incinerated cutlets. I should mention here that Pam is a very good cook. Not only that but she loves her food, adores eating out and worked in the hotel industry before she became a dog sitter. Incinerating her dinner was not a good idea.

I put the grill on high and hoped that I could just warm them up without inflicting further damage. After all, they didn’t look THAT bad. Perhaps they were only burnt on the outside.

I’ve known Pam for many years, but even so I preferred to err on the side of caution. I poured more wine and cooked vegetables and served up Pam’s cutlets. She blinked slightly, took another draft of red wine and tackled her meat.

We’d had a conversation that afternoon about how, with dodgy teeth like mine, and dentures like hers, it’s difficult chewing things, especially meat. So now I watched, we chatted, and after a few minutes, she said, “do you think I could have a sharp knife?”

I heard a giggle in her voice, and passed over a sharp knife. “It looks rather burnt,” I ventured.

“A bit,” she replied, and took another swig of wine. “Has he ever cooked chops before?”

I shook my head. “Only casseroled,” I said, wishing I’d had the foresight to insist that we cooked the meat.

“Didn’t think so,” she said and tears of laughter poured down her face. “I’m really sorry but I can’t chew this.”

And that set us off. I’ve known Pam for 15 years or so and have never seen her life so much or with such abandonment.

We abandoned the meal (“the vegetables are nice,”) and finished off with cheese and biscuits and ice cream. And more wine.

For the rest of the weekend, cutlets became a byword for gales of laughter. (Thankfully Himself took it all in good heart.) Which just goes to show that ruining a meal isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Just don’t let Himself near the chops again.