I apologize in advance if I offend anyone.
Why wasn't there a picture of the finished dish to spur me on?
Of course, I could have read through the recipe and mentally prepared. But I didn't. My bad. My very, very, very bad.
A visual warning would have been nice - it was like a repeat of the "lazy-man's" chicken - except with itty, bitty Cornish game hens.
|Maybe if I interject pictures of nature, they won't notice the lack of the "pretty" shots of the food. Fingers crossed.|
Mother of Pearl. Mother of Pearl. Mother of Pearl. I get weak-kneed just thinking about it.
You would think having survived two children almost all the way through their teen years that I could handle this. After all, I had already survived this...
But you would be wrong.
Maybe if I had boys it would be easier.
|Think about the cactus. Think about the cactus.|
But no takers.
Just a lone by-stander. Bless her soul. At least I didn't have to endure it totally alone.
|They just all laid there in a pile - not even nicely trussed up.|
Thank goodness for the buttermilk biscuits. They were my anchor. Because once the little fowl were in the oven, I could move on to something less traumatic. Flour, butter, buttermilk. Nothing scary there.
|Trust me, I get how he feels... If I could have hid under a rock, I would have.|
This post participates in French Fridays with Dorie - where I am sure many of the other FFwD'ers will have put together highly elegant presentations. You should go look. Seriously. It may help you get these images out of your head.
To my fellow(ess) FFwD'ers - I am sorry for making you live through my trauma. This was highly therapeutic, though.