We had some friends over for dinner last
night. Luckily, close friends we’ve known for years. So after Pilates, netball
and shopping, I finally started getting the food ready about 3pm.
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| Tarts before going into the oven |
I made individual tarts for starters – I
just used bought butter puff pastry, spread some chunky basil and cashew nut
pesto in the bottom, topped with sautéed leeks, goats cheese and slices of fig. They're served with a small pile of rocket and a generous squiggle of balsamic
vinegar. So far so good.
We have a new barbecue and after weeks of
wrong parts, we finally have the rotisserie working. I did some pork last weekend
and although a spot charred, I finally adjusted the temperature and the end result was crispy crackling and juicy meat. So I thought I’d repeat it. I had a beautiful rolled, well-scored loin. Hopes were high. I found a Donna Hay recipe and stole the
idea to serve it with slices of Stilton and a port and honey sauce. I was also
doing creamy mash and dressed radicchio and spinach leaves.
Guests arrive, we’re sipping champagne, I’m
arranging oysters and pop the chorizo in the oven – all's going well until Elle
(12 year old) races in “Mum, oh my god! There’s smoke pouring out of the
barbecue and you should see the meat!’ I sprint out – and she’s right. My pork
looks like a charred offering. OMG all right. Bloody hell!!! Seems the aluminum
drip trays ignited, causing a small, enclosed inferno, taking the under-hood
temperature from 200 to about 800 for only a matter of minutes, but what
damaging minutes they were!
Geoff is so distracted by the potential
ruination of his new barbecue, he completely forgets about the guests. The
paint up the deck pole, which was white, is now black-ish and the paint
blistered. ‘Could have been worse,’ I mutter, ‘the deck could have caught
fire.’ He heads back to the guests to announce that dinner is pretty much fucked.
So helpful.
I get the meat on the metre-long skewer
inside, burn my arm in the panic and get the pork off and under foil to ‘rest’
(possibly more like RIP!). ‘Have
another champagne,’ my wise friends advise, ‘and we’ve saved you a couple of
oysters too. Relax!’
Tarts eaten (despite a good suggestion that
perhaps I could have made them main) I crack off the worse of the charring and
carve the meat. Despite its shrunken, possum-caught-in-a-bush-fire appearance,
it was surprisingly – no, miraculously -
okay. In fact, my three men-friends all threw their hands up for
seconds. Bless!
