Probably...

I could use this clever new American phone I have to record that bloody loud bird that keeps interrupting my reading of Kit Kerr's License to Ensorcell. Then I could send the recording (probably) to my webmail, from which I could uphook it to Dreamwidth and thus to LJ, and then one of you smart people would be able to tell me what kind of bloody loud bird it is.

Not going to, though. Book's too good to faff around with all of that. I only came in for another gin.

Oh recipe, did no one ever (proof)read you...?

I am doing this really mean thing to Karen, where I introduce her to cookery books and make a few dishes out of them and then leave the books with her so that now she's acquired a taste for their recipes she actually has to cook them herself when I am gone.

So this morning I am mostly cooking lunch, for Karen and Laurie; and one of the dishes I am making, I am vaguely half-following a recipe in one of these books, which starts with frying onions and garlic and chicken thighs, and then adding water and simmering 'til done. Sure, fine. Then the chicken comes out and is shredded off the bone and mixed with spinach (I'm using chard) and eggs and cheese and other stuff, and it all goes in the oven to bake. Grand. Except, um, what happens to the onions-and-garlic mixture? Not a mention, not a word. The thought crossed my mind that maybe it was only there to flavour the cooking chicken - but no, for there are also meant to be artichoke hearts in there (I'm using the chard stems), and no one would use those for flavour and then discard them.

What I'll do, I'll dry off the mixture and add it to the chicken etc etc and see what happens. But oy, this is Not Fair on people less casually confident in a kitchen. If Karen likes the result, I'll have to scribble all over the recipe...