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I’m making chicken roulade for Megan and I. I hate Tuesdays with the fire of a thousand suns and I’m exhausted from work, but I made this bed and now I’m going to lie in it. I wish I had scheduled this date for a Thursday or Friday night, but I feel bad about being as drunk as I was last weekend when I met her at the bar so I stick to my word.
I text her the morning of to make sure she’s still coming over and an hour later she confirms with a one word answer – “duh.” I love a little sarcasm during the texting phase. She seems fun. I rack my brain for details of the conversation we had at the bar when we first met but they don’t come. I tell myself as I walk to buy myself lunch that I need to stop drinking so much when I go out. I’m not 22 anymore and no one thinks browning out is funny anymore.
Chicken roulade is not a difficult dish to make, but it looks intricate when plated next to a bed of asparagus and a dollop of couscous. I’ve planned out the dinner so that Megan will arrive while I’m still finishing things up.
This is all on purpose, of course – I don’t want her to think that I faked this meal in any way (i.e. ordered out from a nearby restaurant and then thrown the to go boxes in the trash). I’m not cocky enough to think that my cooking is on par with anything from a decent restaurant, but I feel like it’s important to show the person that you’re cooking for that the process was done with care.
Strangely enough, I’m not all that nervous as I finish tying my roulades up with cooking twine. I throw them onto a skillet with a bit of olive oil to cook for a few minutes. The bottle of pinot noir I’ve opened cost me 30 bucks and as I wait for the chicken to brown up I pour myself a glass. Megan arrives as the couscous is finishing up and she asks if I have any whiskey. I tell her I have some brown available – Dewar’s or Maker’s. All she says is that her dad drinks Dewar’s.
“So Maker’s then?” I say a little bit confused.
“Mmm nah I’ll just have a glass of that wine you’re drinking,” Megan says back while she paces around my living room. She’s picking things up and looking at them. Books on my shelf, a candle from Anthropologie, a tennis ball I squeeze sometimes while I’m on the couch watching TV. She asks me if I had fun the other night and I tell her that I don’t remember all that much.
Our conversation keeps stalling out after a few cursory questions and dinner hasn’t even been plated yet. Megan sees a copy of Infinite Jest on my bookshelf and asks if I’ve actually read it. I smile as I take my roulades out of the oven. I cut them up and place a few on each plate with the asparagus and couscous. I tell her the truth.
“Everyone just has that book, ya know?” I set down the two plates on my coffee table and we eat on my couch. I don’t have space in my living room for a dining room table and I’m momentarily crippled by this fact.
“I tried reading it on vacation last summer and got through the first hundred pages before I gave up. The footnotes were just too much to handle.”
“I cut mine in half with a saw from my dad’s garage so I could carry it around with me on the train. I’ve read it twice. Not to brag or anything.”
“Impressive. I should probably put that somewhere more out in the open so people think I’m some sort of intellectual,” I say to her half-joking.
“Whatever,” Megan shrugs. “This is good, though. We should go to bar after this. I really want a whiskey.”
Ten minutes later I throw the dirty dishes in my sink and we’re out the door, on a mission to get a couple glasses of whiskey on a Tuesday night. I guess she doesn’t like Makers Mark or cheap scotch. I’m going to hate myself tomorrow and I come back to the original thought I had when I woke on Tuesday morning -I really should have scheduled this for a Thursday or Friday..
Respond
jduda@grandex.co
Since he knows that she is going to read this, Duda wrote this without extra Duda.
Megan has expensive taste and a stick up her ass. Not the best combo.
Yeah this chick sounds horrible off the bat
Got damn
This seems like a classic situation where both parties know this won’t be a fun date after 45 seconds, but it’s easier to just drink more and hope for the best than to cut it off after ten minutes.
I’m surprised no one has undertaken a weekly recipe/food column.
I bagged some rabbits a few weeks ago and threw them in the slow cooker. Beef stock, yellow/green onions, garlic, serrano peppers, a few sprigs of rosemary, red ‘taters, and two eggs for a thiqqening agent. T’was dank as hell and I didn’t even get tularemia.
hate that the Post Office lost my dinner invitation in the mail
I sent it by carrier muskrat, it might be a little late
I could take on this challenge but the meals would just be sad and depressing.
sounds like a job for Madoff
Didn’t Charlie do one for awhile?
Like this idea. Also think we need more book recommendations. Currently reading “Pimp: The Story of My Life” by Iceberg Slim and it’s both fascinating and horrifying
Is that the book chapelle talks about in his last special?
yeah it’s fucking crazy
And now we wait for Megan’s response in the comment section to let us know if the chicken roulade actually was good or if she was just being nice in the moment.
“I’m not 22 anymore and no one thinks browning out is funny anymore” really hit home.
I wonder if she sawed the book in half hotdog or burger style
Sounds like Megan is also on the rebound looking for the open layup rather than trying to run and set up a triangle offense.
Reading this as if there’s no other conversation over the course of dinner makes my skin crawl.