Monday, 25 March 2013
Beware the butter burglar
Some ******* nicked my kievs!
I suppose I'd better explain.
For months now, I've been making a family Sunday roast and forcing the kids to "enjoy" it. But not altogether successfully.
Yesterday I went for a change of tack. To demonstrate what a wonderful daddy and all round great guy I am, I decided to make them breaded chicken and chips. As I say, what a guy.
For Vanessa and myself, I chose to improvise and rustle up a couple of chicken kievs. Now, other than the Ukrainian title, this dish was not entirely foreign to me. In fact, I made it twice over Christmas - with varying results.
The first time, it went OK. Wasn't great, but no-one died.
But the second time, I made an error by cutting too deeply into the chicken and allowing all the butter to drain out into the baking tray. It was a pool of kiev and I wasn't happy. And I was left determined not to do it again, hell no.
So yesterday, I was ultra-careful with my knife. I stuffed the butter/garlic/parsley into the respective chickens' holes (as delicate a procedure as it sounds). Before doing the old egg-flour-egg-breadcrumbs routine and whacking the now fully-fledged chicken kievs into the oven for 50 minutes. Bosh!
Both emerged crisp and golden with no sign of seepage. I checked the baking tray for added piece of mind. Nope, clean as a butter-free whistle.
Five minutes later, wine poured, chicken kievs in front of us both, I sat down to savour something of a rarity; credit from the wife.
One, two, three bites in - she seemed mildly pleased. I doesn't get better than that. Verging on smug, I stuck a knife into my portion and waited for the butter to ooze out. There was no oozing. None at all. Not even a little dribble.
By now a stunned mixture of bemusement and panic, I asked Vanessa how hers was. And, by the way, was there any sign of the kiev element of the dish? She said it was very nice, but butter, garlic and parsley - there were none.
I checked the baking tray once again. There was definitely no trace of one or other of the missing kievs.
There could only be one conclusion. At some point during the 50-minute oven stage, when my back was turned - or perhaps when I was having a wee - some nasty, nasty man crept into our kitchen. He opened our oven. And he stole my ******* kievs.
What a thieving ****!