As with any great endeavor, failure is part of the learning curve. This day was an educational day.
While my wife ate hot hot chilli, and by hot I mean insane.
When she thinks it’s too hot with 3/4 of a bowl of rice and 1/4 bowl of chilli, this stuff should come with a warning label. This is a woman who thinks hot sauce is a great condiment to put on to a jalapeño pepper. A woman who could have flaming liquid poured down her throat and call it, piquant.
Finding a box of chicken fingers in the freezer I figured I could dress them up a bit, like fancy gloves. With the remainder of the rice that remained after so many grains had been cruelly exposed to the chilli, like so many tiny virgins tossed into the mouth of a volcano to please the spousal God. I added a can of vegetable soup and rounded out the meal with some dark rye bread.
The combination of chicken fingers and vegetable soup enhanced rice was lackluster and had no synergistic connection. Not a Sonny and Cher combination, it was more Kanye West and Taylor Swift on my plate. One good, the other tasteless and when mixed awkwardly unpalatable.
The dark rye didn’t help, it gave everything a smoky flavour, and while that is a great addition to many foods, don’t expect to see smokey vegetable soup on the store shelves any time soon.
While my self appointed food taster was quite pleased with the buttered bread even she did not return for seconds after being shooed away. She just sat lurking in her anorexic jungle while the dogs, not knowing any better, attempted to entice me into sharing with them. Considering one of those fine animals ate a diaper earlier, I wouldn’t recommend taking their dinning critiques to serious.