We had our first risotto failure last night without even turning on a burner. I chopped the white part of the leek, clipped the whites and greens of the scallions separately, grated the granite block of Parmesan, and minced the meanest yellow onion with which I’ve crossed paths in a while, sticking my head in the freezer for a little relief every thirty seconds. Ten o’clock found all ingredients prepped, utensils readied and pan positioned, so Mr. P suggested a cigarette break.
The first time I stayed up for over eighteen consecutive hours was about two years ago, and only because someone started yelling directly into my ear on a nightly basis. When 10 PM rolls around, my body begins looking for the first opportunity to close up shop, and anything remotely resembling a mental wind-down triggers the landing gear. Within five minutes, I was bumblingly throwing cling wrap over the prep bowls in an effort to get everything in the fridge before passing out, and fell asleep misguidedly impressed by my foresight.
As Billy the Kid dragged me downstairs this morning for his 6 AM milk and coffee, I noticed that my house smelled like the produce section at Market Basket. Opening the fridge, both BK’s and my faces seized up as the pungency of all those onions heaved forth in a cool belch. My two options at this point appear to be either masking the odor with a house-wide insect bomb or waiting out the smell until I’ve become accustomed to it and then never leaving again.
In what promises to be a lasting lesson in biting off more than one can chew, I will complete execution of round one with my sins from last night, if for no other reason than to set an easily surpassable bar. Let’s hope I’m not about to strip the paint off my walls.