“Do not think to escape me, sir. I’m afraid I cannot permit it.”
“Baaaaa.”
“I have heard such a thing, yes. But you neglect a key detail.”
“Baaaa?”
“The present is clear; the future is known only to God.”
“Baaaaaaaaaa.”
“Then I shall send you to Him. On guard, sir.”
Almost three years ago, towards the beginning of my attempt to learn to cook, I had my first and only inedible culinary failure. I tried to make Spoon Lamb (Gigot De Sept Heures), a provinical French dish that was to render a leg of lamb so tender that you could eat it with a spoon.
Roasted for hours in root vegetables, wine and herbs, this lamb would be served in its own sauce over white beans. What could be better?
Alas, I didn’t read carefully enough to realize that you absolutely had to cover the lamb in foil before you roasted it for six hours. Needless to say, I ended up with Shoe Lamb (Chaussure De Sept Heures).
This week I’ve been reading the Three Musketeers (in order to work up my courage, drunken insouciance and general sense of romantic adventure), and tomorrow, I will revisit my Own Private Waterloo, and this time I will conquer Spoon Lamb.
I have you in my eye, sir.