Every so often I am inspired to create an amazing new dish, like my Thrice baked lemon meringue pie. This happened again yesterday.
Specially mixed Mediterranean vegetables:
1. Toss sliced peppers, courgettes, red onions and cherry tomatoes in herbs, seasoning and olive oil.
2. Roast in a hot oven for about forty minutes.
3. Carefully remove the tin with the cooked vegetables.
4. Upend the tin onto the floor. Ensure all the vegetable have fallen out. There should be a big oily pool of grease with the veg scattered about in it.
5. Using a large fish slice, scoop all the veg back into the tin. By this time, they will be well mixed.
6. Serve.
Cook's note: this doesn't work so well if the floor is carpeted. It also helps if the floor is clean (ish).
Showing posts with label cooking disasters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking disasters. Show all posts
Thursday, 29 June 2017
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Letter to Delia
Dear Delia
I like you. I really do. I like your wholesomeness; the fact that you are down-to-earth, and when you're on the TV you don't do that coy thing creeping down to the (studio) fridge in your nightie to pig out on something fattening; the fact that you remind us to put on our oven gloves in case we burn ourselves. You are a nice person.
But I can't get on with your recipes. I've tried. I really have. I know I'm in a minority. I know it's almost certainly my own fault. But there it is. Last week we had friends to dinner, and I tried your recipe for ratatouille. I followed the instructions minutely, cut the veg in inch-thick slices (which really went against the grain, but you are Deila and you know). Well, it was a disaster. Although I gave it extra cooking time, it was like chewing boot leather. It didn't work. I love ratatouille. It's one of my favourite dishes ("why didn't you stick to to your usual receipe?" asked my daughter. Good point. But I thought that because you are Delia, yours would be even better. It wasn't). So I shall put my Delia book away for a while. Maybe I'll try again one day; maybe I won't. At the moment, I need time to get over the humiliation of watching seven people trying to look as though they're enjoying something horrible.
But have a wonderful Chrsitmas, anyway, and no hard feelings, eh? After all, with so many fans, you don't really need me.
I like you. I really do. I like your wholesomeness; the fact that you are down-to-earth, and when you're on the TV you don't do that coy thing creeping down to the (studio) fridge in your nightie to pig out on something fattening; the fact that you remind us to put on our oven gloves in case we burn ourselves. You are a nice person.
But I can't get on with your recipes. I've tried. I really have. I know I'm in a minority. I know it's almost certainly my own fault. But there it is. Last week we had friends to dinner, and I tried your recipe for ratatouille. I followed the instructions minutely, cut the veg in inch-thick slices (which really went against the grain, but you are Deila and you know). Well, it was a disaster. Although I gave it extra cooking time, it was like chewing boot leather. It didn't work. I love ratatouille. It's one of my favourite dishes ("why didn't you stick to to your usual receipe?" asked my daughter. Good point. But I thought that because you are Delia, yours would be even better. It wasn't). So I shall put my Delia book away for a while. Maybe I'll try again one day; maybe I won't. At the moment, I need time to get over the humiliation of watching seven people trying to look as though they're enjoying something horrible.
But have a wonderful Chrsitmas, anyway, and no hard feelings, eh? After all, with so many fans, you don't really need me.
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