Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Neither TC nor I can even look at chicken cacciatore (the name or in person) without dry-heaving a little. And that's all thanks to my experiment with the meal nearly 8 years ago.
To make a long, not all that interesting story short or at least kind of interesting, I wanted to prepare a special meal for my hard working, hard studying husband. So my newlywed self worked so hard in the kitchen to make chicken cacciatore (because we already had all the ingredients). TC wasn't due home until 8:30pm, so I timed it just right (ha!) and had it ready at 8:00 and left it simmering. When TC was half-hour late I did my best not to be upset (because I had SLAVED in the kitchen, and how inconsiderate of him to be late when he had no idea that I had been slaving in the kitchen to make him something special).
I lit some candles, served up our special meal, and we sat down to eat. TC, normally tolerant of my kitchen mishaps (which are getting fewer and farther between), stopped midbite after the third bite, and said, "I'm sorry Gordi. I just can't eat this." I cried a little because it was so true. It tasted exactly like a tin can. We threw it all down the drain, and had toast by candlelight for dinner instead.
And now, chicken cacciatore holds a special place in our hearts.