Dear Husband, forgive me, but my ass is too lazy to make it to the grocery store.
We could order Chinese, but we did that 2 days ago. Don't even think about pizza. Pizza is what got me here in the first place. I NEED to go to the grocery store but Minxette is trying desperately to give up her nap so she is foul and I am lazy.
Thus, I'm going through the refrigerator trying to figure out how to make something out of nothing. It don't even gotta be that good, lemme tell you, but I need to come up with something.
A quick scan of the refrigerator gives me dismal news: the only fresh vegetables I have in the crisper are part of a red onion and a ridiculously lame sprig of flat-leaf parsley. Huh, there's also a wizened lime in there. Who knew?
Time for plan B. Open the freezer. Oh dear. One lonely chicken breast and 1/3 of a bag of frozen peas that came from SuperTarget, for chrissakes, not even the grocery store.
Plan C. Open the pantry. Now here is where it behooves you to grow up in North Dakota, people. North Dakotans are always fearing the next snowstorm, so they stock their pantries like the Mormons. I grew up this way and it rubbed off; I am bean and rice Diva! Except...looks like I've been out of North Dakota too long because all we have is about 1/3 of a bag of orzo. What's with this 1/3 of a package crap going on here?
Aha! I spy out of the corner of my little eye...jarred roasted red peppers and kalamata olives! Yes!
I reach behind me and pull out from my (you know where): Mediterrenean Chicken Orzo Salad. Sounds kinda fancy even. Aw man, do I have goat cheese? Rip open refrigerator door; confirmed. My weakness for cheese pays off sometimes, it does.
I boil the orzo, chop the little onion and parsley that I have, chop the peppers and olives. The cat vomits on the carpet--I know--TMI for a recipe blog, but I have to deal with it immediately, because Minxette is showing interest in said cat vomit. Pause.
So it took a little longer than expected to clean that bit of sunshine up and the orzo is just a teeny bit south of al dente but, Understanding Husband, I know you will not say a thing. Now, for the viniagrette.
Where's my vinegar? The everyday salad vinegar that I always have? Okay, not happening, so what else do I have. Viola! Balsamic from Zingermans. A very dark colored balsamic vinegar that is going to turn the pretty white orzo and the red peppers and the green peas and the creamy feta...brown. Is there any other acidic thing in the house I can use in this viniagrette? I have a brief conversation with the lime and that's a negatory. So, I guess it's BROWN dinner tonight, my love.
What? Is that mustard you spy on the countertop, my Loving Husband? No, no, no, honey, you know that I know that mustard is one of your most hated things. I would never, not ever, put mustard in the viniagrette. Except that from day one of our courtship I, the woman who loves you, has been sneaking mustard into every viniagrette you've ever eaten. And you, dear husband, have never known and eaten it happily, so IN it goes, along with some glugs of olive oil, salt and pepper.
Shred the chicken, which I've poached in chicken stock, bay and peppercorn--okay, I probably should have grilled it but I didn't want to dirty a grill pan...gosh, can we just key in the word lazy and this post pops up?
Mix everything together and add the black as night balsamic viniagrette and we have...dinner that's really not very attractive. Because, of course, it's brown.
I ought to toss the whole thing. But I taste it. Hey. Not bloody bad, if I must say so myself. Eh, what the heck, looks aren't everything Sweet Husband, you knew that when you married me, so this is the dinner you're getting. And luckily for me, you just phoned to remind me that you're on call tonight, so you'll be too hungry and too pooped to care when you get this ugly mess for dinner tonight.
Hugs and kisses,
Your Loving Wife
ps: Since you are on call tonight, your kids get this for dinner.