I roasted a chicken and a half with vegetables on Sunday evening.
Being the ever-on-top-of –it working mother that I am, I had dutifully read my Real Simple magazine, gotten new cooking ideas and recipes, made my grocery list and ran through the store at breakneck speed so I could get back in time for Jay to go pick up our Phish tickets for this coming Saturday’s show. I wanted to cook a nice Sunday dinner, especially since Greta was home.
I had cleaned the kitchen, poured a glass of pinot grigio and began to cook. I was cooking enough for dinner that night, dinner the next night and lunch leftovers for me for the next couple of days at work.
I was busy. Things were being cleaned and cooked and prepped in a small space at a high rate of multitasking speed…and there was that pinot.
For reasons I will not get into, I was a bit distracted and emotional. I had also fielded a couple of calls from my emotional and high strung mother while cooking said meals and was even more distracted than cooking for 5 people and 4 meals would have normally been – and that would have been hard enough.
When it came time to take the chicken out and check for doneness, I could not find the meat thermometer.
I am horrible about timing chicken. In an effort to make sure I do not serve my family salmonella on a plate, I over cook the chicken every time. Then I am disappointed when I cut into that chicken and realize with the first bite that I did it again and, therefore, my efforts for a perfectly cooked meal were in vain. After all that work. Dammit.
So I have begun to rely on the thermometer. Once that baby says my chicken has reached 165 degrees, it is out of the oven to rest. I will not over cook the chicken. I will not over cook the chicken.
But, when I tried to find the thermometer I had specifically laid out on the counter in preparation, it was not there. I had just had it. Greta had seen it on the counter as well. Still it was nowhere to be found.
After a few minutes search, I realized I was wasting too much time looking for it and cut into the chicken to check for doneness. It wasn’t. So I put it back into the oven and, after thinking about it, decided that the 10 minutes Jay had suggested could not be long enough and I doubled it to 20 minutes. (Ensuring later, of course, that the chicken would, once again, be over cooked.)
I moved on to the next step in the recipe – prepping the maple Dijon sauce. As I got the Dijon mustard out of the refrigerator, my mother called. again. I listened to whatever it was she’d forgotten to tell me when we were on the phone 30 minutes before as I shook the mustard. I sat it down and checked the vegetables.
Realizing they were almost overdone, I pulled out the roasted vegetables and poured them up into a corning ware dish and covered them with foil while I waited the last few minutes for the chicken (to over cook).
I got off the phone with my mother and got out the maple syrup and a bowl. I went to get the mustard and wisk. No mustard on the counter. Or in the frige. Or in the pantry. Or next to the sink.
Where the hell was the mustard, dammit???
I had just had it.
Of course, I had also just had the meat thermometer as well. And no one could find it, either. Jay had come into the kitchen and looked; Greta had come into the kitchen and looked. It was gone.
And now the mustard. AAARrrrrgggghhhh.
Jay, hearing my frustration and frantic search for the mustard, came into the kitchen. With a “what is it this time?” and a cursory look around the kitchen, Jay helpfully suggested that I use the creole mustard he found in the frige instead of the Dijon mustard whose whereabouts I was currently losing my mind over.
No, no, no. I was not using the creole mustard. It was not like I had not checked the frige before I went to the grocery store and made sure we had the ingredients I needed to make the recipe. Had I screwed up and not had it, ok. I would use a substitute mustard, as much as I would have hated doing it. But I had the right mustard. Hell, I had HAD IT IN MY HAND shaking it up not 10 minutes ago. I would only need to use the creole mustard if we did not HAVE Dijon. And, unless someone came into the kitchen and DELIBERATELY took the Dijon mustard and threw it outside, we HAD Dijon mustard.
I AM NOT CRAZY. It was here. It was right here. I was on the phone with Mother. I took it out of the frige. I shook it up so the watery stuff that settles would not drip into my dish.
I put it right HERE. I slapped the counter in the spot where I knew I had set the mustard a few minutes before.
Or had I? Had I imagined it?
Jay told me I was overreacting. He told me it was not there anymore and no one knew what I had done with it. We checked cabinets, the freezer, drawers. I got more and more upset because the stranger the places we looked, the worse I felt. If we did find the Dijon mustard in the freezer, then I am a lot more scatterbrained and out of control than even I thought. And I hate that about myself. I hate being scatterbrained and high strung. I want desperately to be one of those calm, in control moms who have all the tools and time everything out – and never over cook the chicken.
I was on the verge of tears.
Have you ever seen the movie Midnight Lace? It is a Doris Day, Rex Harrison 1960s thriller. It has been a while for me, but from what I remember it is about a married woman who starts to doubt her own sanity. Things start happening she cannot explain. She gets death threats by phone. Then notes that disappear. When she tries to show proof, there is none to be found. Her loving husband and best friend stand staunchly beside her as she descends into madness and hysteria.
I am pretty sure in one scene the husband takes his nutty, hysterical wife by the shoulders and tells her she is overreacting.
Only the husband and best friend are having an affair and have orchestrated the whole thing so when the poor wife winds up dead it is not from them murdering her (which they fully intend on doing) but from her tragically taking her own life due to her stedily increasing paranoia. Their mutual grief (and the conveniently dead wife’s inheritance) is the basis for their growing love and affection leading to their marriage and happily ever after.
Apparently, Ezra has seen this movie. And understands it well enough to use their tactics to get rid of me.
While Jay was in the kitchen holding me by the shoulders telling me I was freaking out for no apparent cause and it was just mustard, for heaven’s sake, who cares which one you use, Greta took Ezra into the living room and asked him where he put the mustard.
Just as I was trying to tearfully explain to Jay that I felt like I was losing my mind and I had already been upset and THIS WAS NOT HELPING, Ezra showed Greta where in the pantry he had hidden the Dijon fucking mustard. I never even saw him sneak into the kitchen, the little rascal.
I understand that I had Ezra when I was 37 and that means I will be old, demented and crusty when he is in his 30s. I just never thought he’d have the wherewithal to start laying the groundwork for my incompetency hearing this far in advance.
He never would fess up about the thermometer though.
Greta found that under her bag in the living room the next day.
I am going to have to keep an eye on this one.