Cranky teases me for my "plating" technique.
I have no technique. I lack the "insouciant" gene for artful scattering, so I have to resort to kindergartenesque concentric circles, with maybe a blob of main dish in the middle of the plate and radiating garnishes surrounding it.
Cranky calls it "anal." I call it "rectal...linear."
Anyway, the joke's on Cranky (or maybe he was spoofing on himself).
He served last night's light supper on a fondue dish, the kind you use for beef fondue boiled in oil and dipped into one of several sauces. See those five slots? Five sauces (think something ketchupy, something mustardy, something pesto-y, something — oh, I don't know, something 70's-ish). See the larger space where the cheese is? That's where you'd pile your raw beef, awaiting a blistering bath in the bubbling Wesson.
You'd forget how hot that long metal fork would get in the sizzling oil, and sometimes you'd accidentally shove the meat straight into your mouth, without transfering it to your "polite" fork. Burning your lips in the process... or so I've heard.
My mom gave me her old set of six gorgeous fondue dishes, of which this is one. We like to use the divided plate for a variety of presentations.
And so, last night Cranky stayed inside the lines.
Hah. Plating technique, my eye!
See, Cranky? Sometimes neat is neat.