I spent more than six months having the genius of Escoffier drilled into me, in much the same way as the military had me holding my cock in one hand and a loaded M-16 in the other while screaming at the top of my lungs for four hours, "This is my weapon, this is my gun, this is for shooting, this is for fun!"
I make my own demi-glace; it takes three days if you do it right and it starts with ten pounds of cow bones and a lot of carrots, onions and butter. Which you then turn into a brown veal sauce. Which you then have to turn into an Espagniole sauce. Which only then you can turn into a demi-glace.
My wife threw some black beans in a pot and told me to stay away from the kitchen. Two hours later there was "Messkin" food. Nothing that anyone anywhere between Baja and Honduras has ever cooked, nothing ever served in Texas or Texarkana or even Japan, and yet I'm in pain. Because I couldn't stop eating this monstrosity of food porn. Five fucking bowls of this stuff, after a giant tortilla wrap stuffed with it and some shredded <groan> Emmentaler cheese.
And yet... I don't have to pretend to like things she does because I actually do. My wife is awesome. Even if you haven't looked at a single pic of the Puppy, the fact that Millman is alive is a tribute to her awesomeness (as well as to his sister's). But she really shouldn't be allowed near a kitchen.
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