Ferdinand has fallen in love with a girl called Georgie and has invited her over for dinner on Friday. Friday is pizza night and the inside scoop is Georgie doesn’t like pizza.
I am a cook; that’s my job. It’s what I do. At dinner parties for 45 people, 6 minutes before service I can take on unplanned vegetarians, a dinner call for 8 o’clock changed to 9; I can roll out 45 biscuits between the appetizers and the first course if I forgot to buy bread, and rework a menu top to bottom at the butcher if he has no lamb chops without making the next customer wait any longer than she would have anyway.
No pizza on Friday has frozen me solid. I have 10 cookbooks spread across my desk and nothing is speaking to me, nothing moves me, nothing works!!!!!!
Not a green chili sauce to pick up the chic peas I already have sitting in the fridge–too spicy. Or a pea and mint torte–what if she hates eggs and ricotta? I am in love with lamb chops grilled over a wood fire served with thick bread and a side of braised artichokes and carrots–but no child in their right mind likes lamb–it’s a wooly baby for god’s sake. Homemade pasta? Maybe. with asparagus and creme fraiche, parmesan and only a hint of egg yolk that slowly melts into a sauce? Gnocchi–that’s it. I am going to roll out tender, tiny, potato gnocchi and finish them with butter sauce for the under four footers and with butter sauce, pecorino and mint for the tall crowd; fresh peas and ramps slowly simmered together on the side. Strawberries the color of a nosebleed with a mountain of raw sugar for dipping.