Now, I'm not trying to brag or anything. (Yes, I am.) But I invited a friend over for lunch yesterday, and he came to my house and cooked.
True, I am a bit of a slouch in the hostessing department (and he knows it from the last time he had a meal at my house). I had food on the premises, although there were problems with its palatability quotient. We did eat it, in fact, and it was — edible.
The meal was saved because this guest taught me and Cranky how to rescue a dish that has become too salty: stick a couple chunks of cut-up potato in there and let them suck away the extra salinity (and then take them out — all of them, heh). Et voilà, red beans and smoked ham shanks (it was over-usage of shanks that had resulted in over-NaCl-ness). Salvaged, the beans were decent, if a little leaden, sloshed over rice. (Should have been more sloshy, but exuberant sloshes of champagne helped wash it down.)
But the good eating, the "dessert," was yet to happen. Our guest brought it: An obscene length of homemade sausage created by the mad meat genius Chile Brown, and a perky knob of tri-tip of beef, slathered in Dr. Biggles' own Hillbilly Jerk rub.
He made it look effortless, popping the beef into a pan in the oven and the sausage into an iron pot on the stove. Ignore, ignore, turn over, take temperature, take out, let rest, slice, drool, eat, cry.
Oh, wait, take picture first. He took this picture, because he's as good a photographer as he is a meat master.
I should have just asked him to write my blog today, too, come to think of it. He'd have done a good job.