An update to tickle your funnybone.
Well, not really, because that sounds retarded. But I was somewhat amused.
Our story begins about, oh, two months ago. I decided, one weekend, to make connieorigami some jambalaya, because she really likes Cajun/Creole food. We have, very near to our home, a farmer's market of some renown, which sells all kinds of extremely fresh meats and vegetables from various locales, including local selections.
I bought some various aromatics and some sausage, chicken, and shrimp (We also had some ham given to us as leftovers by my parents-in-law.), and proceeded to work, with connieorigami acting as sous-chef.
It came out, though I say it myself, very well. And we had a fair bit of the stuff. So it was pushed into service for lunches at work.
During work, evidently (I was not there), connie could not shut up about the jambalaya and how fantastically fantastic it was, and therefore everyone at work (hers) wanted to try the recipe. My problem? For dishes like this, I don't generally work from recipes. I read a few, decide what sounds about right, and proceed to plunge ahead. Generally, this approach works quite well. Sometimes, though.....But I digress.
Anyway, what all this meant is: I had to write a recipe. Horror of horrors. I'd never done it before, but I have read quite a few, and changed them up a bit, so I didn't think of it as being a problem. You can find the recipe I wrote here. (Warning: it's a plain text file, so it's a real pain in the web browser. You may just want to download it and open it in your editor of choice.)
Well, all was right in the land following the distribution of the recipe. Several of connie's coworkers made it, applying their own modifications, and pronounced it good. Thus was connie able to bask in praise as the distributor of the recipe, and I was once again left alone to be the giant sourpuss that I am.
Fast forward to the end of August. My father-in-law's birthday approaching, my mother-in-law thought of the praise heaped upon my wife for the Jambalaya of much fame, so she does what? If you guessed made Jambalaya for her husband's birthday, you'd be absolutely wrong. No, she was much more insidious--she had ME come to make Jambalaya for his birthday.
The trouble here is that my mother-in-law, despite being a comfort food cook of some renown, has never actually owned (a) a real knife (She actually does all her chopping, boning, slicing, dicing, and mincing with a paring knife. No wonder she has arthritis.), or (b) a real stockpot. So. We dragged our knife block and 20 quart stockpot an hour from home so we could actually do the cooking (did I mention there were 15 people at the party?) at my in-laws. This is, of course, neglecting to mention the sausage, chicken, and shrimp, of which we could find no good source near there. Plus two dogs. Who love to be underfoot while we cook.
Again, connie acted as sous-chef, and, apart from a minor emergency with the rice, it again came out quite good, and only one dog was threatened with strangulation.
Two of the guests at this dinner were my parents, who, it must be said, were impressed with the culinary skill of their first-born. Or else the wine was flowing a bit too heavily. Could've been either, really. In any case, it was suggested that I make the trip to their house to cook (Jambalaya again, natch) when my grandparents blew through town in mid-September (for those of you keeping track, this past weekend), since my father, who generally does the cooking 'round those parts, would be out of town.
This time, luckily, we had the use of my father's cooking implements, which, while worn, are far superior, in both quality and quantity, to my mother-in-law's. So we just had to drag the meat and the dogs an hour this time. There were a mere six to cook for this time, so it was a smaller batch, but it, once again, came out quite good, and was a hit with all present.
On the way home with the leftovers (my parents are going low-carbohydrate, so my mom didn't want the rice), my beautiful sous-chef said: "After these are gone, you are never making Jambalaya again." I'm fairly sure she was joking.
So there you have it. The True-Life Adventures of the Traveling Jambalaya Road Show. Look for us coming to a town near you.
tl;dr: Everyone likes my cooking, and you suck. This is livejournal, just read the fucking entries, right?
Our story begins about, oh, two months ago. I decided, one weekend, to make connieorigami some jambalaya, because she really likes Cajun/Creole food. We have, very near to our home, a farmer's market of some renown, which sells all kinds of extremely fresh meats and vegetables from various locales, including local selections.
I bought some various aromatics and some sausage, chicken, and shrimp (We also had some ham given to us as leftovers by my parents-in-law.), and proceeded to work, with connieorigami acting as sous-chef.
It came out, though I say it myself, very well. And we had a fair bit of the stuff. So it was pushed into service for lunches at work.
During work, evidently (I was not there), connie could not shut up about the jambalaya and how fantastically fantastic it was, and therefore everyone at work (hers) wanted to try the recipe. My problem? For dishes like this, I don't generally work from recipes. I read a few, decide what sounds about right, and proceed to plunge ahead. Generally, this approach works quite well. Sometimes, though.....But I digress.
Anyway, what all this meant is: I had to write a recipe. Horror of horrors. I'd never done it before, but I have read quite a few, and changed them up a bit, so I didn't think of it as being a problem. You can find the recipe I wrote here. (Warning: it's a plain text file, so it's a real pain in the web browser. You may just want to download it and open it in your editor of choice.)
Well, all was right in the land following the distribution of the recipe. Several of connie's coworkers made it, applying their own modifications, and pronounced it good. Thus was connie able to bask in praise as the distributor of the recipe, and I was once again left alone to be the giant sourpuss that I am.
Fast forward to the end of August. My father-in-law's birthday approaching, my mother-in-law thought of the praise heaped upon my wife for the Jambalaya of much fame, so she does what? If you guessed made Jambalaya for her husband's birthday, you'd be absolutely wrong. No, she was much more insidious--she had ME come to make Jambalaya for his birthday.
The trouble here is that my mother-in-law, despite being a comfort food cook of some renown, has never actually owned (a) a real knife (She actually does all her chopping, boning, slicing, dicing, and mincing with a paring knife. No wonder she has arthritis.), or (b) a real stockpot. So. We dragged our knife block and 20 quart stockpot an hour from home so we could actually do the cooking (did I mention there were 15 people at the party?) at my in-laws. This is, of course, neglecting to mention the sausage, chicken, and shrimp, of which we could find no good source near there. Plus two dogs. Who love to be underfoot while we cook.
Again, connie acted as sous-chef, and, apart from a minor emergency with the rice, it again came out quite good, and only one dog was threatened with strangulation.
Two of the guests at this dinner were my parents, who, it must be said, were impressed with the culinary skill of their first-born. Or else the wine was flowing a bit too heavily. Could've been either, really. In any case, it was suggested that I make the trip to their house to cook (Jambalaya again, natch) when my grandparents blew through town in mid-September (for those of you keeping track, this past weekend), since my father, who generally does the cooking 'round those parts, would be out of town.
This time, luckily, we had the use of my father's cooking implements, which, while worn, are far superior, in both quality and quantity, to my mother-in-law's. So we just had to drag the meat and the dogs an hour this time. There were a mere six to cook for this time, so it was a smaller batch, but it, once again, came out quite good, and was a hit with all present.
On the way home with the leftovers (my parents are going low-carbohydrate, so my mom didn't want the rice), my beautiful sous-chef said: "After these are gone, you are never making Jambalaya again." I'm fairly sure she was joking.
So there you have it. The True-Life Adventures of the Traveling Jambalaya Road Show. Look for us coming to a town near you.
tl;dr: Everyone likes my cooking, and you suck. This is livejournal, just read the fucking entries, right?