Rainy Saturdays, good to be home and dry. Not going anywhere tonight. Looking forward to a night in, the Bledisloe match on in about a hour, and not long after that the footy proper. I’ll be safely ensconced on my couch thinking how good is it to be a boy?
It’s fat day too, so making the most of that. Put on a mix CD of old, nostalgic tunes before to cook by. First Rigby and I had a little dance while Nat King Cole in his oh so smooth voice crooned about when he’s too old to dream, before next song crackles to life, Fever, how’s that Rigby, know that tune? And Rigby loved that, and showed some good moves. Okay, enough of the dancing boy and so Rigby followed me into the kitchen to attentively watch as I prepared tonight’s dinner. I mixed and rolled and breadcrumbed listening to music by singers now long dead, Cole and Sinatra, Dean Martin, Etta James, Sarah Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby, Bobby Darin… I sang along to songs I’d known since I was a kid and mum singing around the house as she did her cooking, the songs she used to perform once when she’d been a singer: now I did the same. Or else I whistled with all my might, surprised out how powerfully and tunefully the notes trilled from my pursed lips, happily going with the flow. It was odd in a good way. Close my eyes and maybe I could have been there, that time, that era, so distant now and so different to ours. Perfect cooking music too.
Tonight’s meal is a cracker: fat overload. Never made Chicken Kiev until today. It’s a classic dish maybe a little unfashionable these days, but just the thought of that garlic infused butter oozing from the crunchy breadcrumbed chicken fillet gets me licking my lips. I feel like Rigby. Just to go all in I’m making potatoes dauphinoise to go with it, heaps of cream, more garlic, and potatoes. And for some semblance of moderation some green beans will go on the side. For dessert I picked up this mega-expensive, mega-awarded ice-cream from the deli earlier today for half price. That’s the scene sportsfans, me on the couch cheering on Oz and abusing refs and umpires and barracking hard for my boys while I tuck into an extended feast. If I don’t go to bed with indigestion I’m doing something wrong.
This is what Saturdays are meant to be all about.