Neil's First Roast

Since my re-entering the work force four weeks ago, Neil has well and truly embraced his new position as Stay-At-Home-Unemployed-Bum, the title so lovingly held by me for the last six months.

As well as taking care of organising our utilities, grocery shopping, picking up furniture and having the girls for a week, he has tackled the long-held tradition in our relationship that Men Don’t Cook. 

Transforming no less spectacularly than an ugly wee caterpillar into a beautiful coloured butterfly, he has cast aside his long-held aversion to this woman’s duty and taken my new Jamie Oliver cookbook hostage.

Until the 17^th of September 2012 I had ingested only two things made at the hands of Neil in our four years together.

Spaghetti Bolognese, and hotcakes.

(There are a couple more, but my Nana reads this blog).

Hence my scepticism when, arriving in Melbourne the first night, he insisted he start cooking every night from here on in.

“But… I’m not working yet… and I don’t need to study yet [LIAR]… and you know… I’m really not that hungry at the moment babes [LIAR]… let’s just have toast huh?”

My flattery/diversion/distraction/crying techniques didn’t work, so I relented and he cooked dinner that night.  And cook dinner he did.

Eggs Benedict (yes, for dinner… so call the Police) was first on his agenda and I drew sharp intake of breath.

Now, I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, but Eggs Benedict are pretty hard to make.  Poached eggs?  Not so hard.  Bacon?  Not terribly challenging.  Hollandaise sauce?  Ass kicker right there.

Cooking all three and having them ready at the same time?  Something that only comes with years of practice and a lot of confidence in the kitchen.

Until, that is, Mr Bloody Perfectionist With Aircraft Engineer Precision decides to give it a go.

I tried to be pissed off that his eggs were so perfect, but to be honest, they were so delicious it was hard to uphold.

“Oh… *insert disappointed face* thanks babe.  That looks alright aye?  Good work, at least you tried.”

OK, so I’m not proud of myself.

Since that first fateful night, he’s come along with leaps and bounds.  I’ve had:

Stuffed Pumpkin

Crispy Lemon Crumbed Chicken

Beef Stirfry

Meatballs with Chilli Salsa Sauce

Home-made Burgers

Chicken Tomato Pasta

Salmon Steaks with Dill Sauce

…to name a few.  

As you can see, I’ve been pretty spoilt.  In fact, in a few short weeks I’ve gone from being delighted and surprised when I get home, to demanding another culinary delight the moment I’ve finished licking my plate.

Which leads us to tonight.

Last night’s dinner was served with a DELICIOUS yoghurt, cucumber and dill sauce – so delicious that I went to bed dreaming about what I could have it with again tonight.

I decided during the day that I was going to demand lamb for dinner.  Not just any lamb, but a little mini roast lamb just like one of my workmates had described to me that morning.  It would be lovely with the sauce, served to me on a silver tray with candles and my vodka on the side after a hard day’s study and a little bit of joking around in class.

Because we finished at 1pm, I had plenty of time to compile a shopping list.  

[And, although it sounds like I should be high-fived for getting early knock-off, in reality all it meant was I moved my study books from one desk to another a little earlier than I usually do.]  

Mindful of how long a roast was going to take, I nagged Neil to get going so that he could get back quicker and cook for me.  Hearing the car pull up outside, I threw my phone on the desk, stuck my pen in my mouth, and frowned at the paper in front of me.

“Hmmmm…. The aircraft is transferred to an area control sector as it climbs to cruising level… yup yup that makes sense, of course… oh, hey babes I didn’t hear you pull up…  as the aircraft approaches each sector boundary on the way to Brisbane it is transferred to the new sectors frequency… right, right.. man this stuff is hard work, I’m so clever…”

Forgot to turn the sound off on my Angry Birds app.  

Fortunately by this stage he’s in the kitchen pulling stuff out of bags, telling me how much everything was. 

 

“Oh by the way babe, uh… nice coffee spill in the car, did you do that on the way to work..?”

“Do you mind babe…?  Sorry, but I’m trying to study.”  I turn back to my notes, roll my eyes, and hit the mute button on my phone.

What seems like only 35 minutes later, he’s pulling the roast out of the oven, telling me how long it needs to stand for before carving.  I’m a little bit puzzled by the timing, but he assures me he’s read the instructions on the back and cooked it for five minutes longer they what they recommend for well-done.  Knowing full well he’s researched this for four hours like he does with everything he creates, I turn back to my Facebook page.

After dishing up a delightful array of roasted sweet potato, roasted carrots and cooked peas, he sets about carving our roast lamb.  I hear a few muttered words about “wow, this is quite hard to carve” and “oh, there’s string on here!”, and he reminisced about the roast lambs he had when he was young.  Every time his Mum cooked lamb it was dished up to him with a little bit of string on it – in fact it became such the norm that it was as sought after as the wishbone on a chicken. 

He commented that our roast was ever so slightly pink on the inside, and my mouth watered.  Just how I like it, I couldn’t wait!  I glanced over but because he didn’t have the kitchen light on, I couldn’t see very well.  The sun setting in the background was possibly playing tricks with my eyes.

After plating it up, it looked so beautiful he took a photo.  I put my vodka down, climbed out of my cuddly sleeping bag that I was sitting in at my desk, and rushed over to the bench to devour my meal.

As he carried his full plate into the lounge with a look on his face like a six year-old in the lead role at the school play, I could only smile and shake my head at my red-green colour-blind boyfriend and his raw roast lamb.