Hubby decided to try his hand at making deep fried onion rings. For no particular reason. It’s how he operates in the kitchen. Which, I must say, usually turns out well for the rest of us. It’s why violin girl and I returned home this weekend to find the overly-ripened bananas gone from the fruit basket and a couple of nicely turned-out loaves of banana bread resting on the counter.
Out came his beloved ugly, bright orange Betty Crocker cookbook–circa 1970-something. They’re the best of friends.
When hubby attempts some new kitchen project, a strange, yet oddly familiar feeling comes over me. Rather than leaving the project in capable and willing hands, Kaukab’s daughter remains present–hovering over hubby’s shoulder, commenting profusely, insistently about the improper frying methods about to be perpetrated. How the oil’s level is too low, which could not be considered “deep” frying in any language. How the onions will be ruined. Then, silence.
Well, lucky for us, hubby elected to ignore my protestations (as usual) and we were rewarded with ringlets of “deep” fried onion perfection. Each enjoying them in his or her own unique way:
Sorry, Kaukab. I couldn’t help myself.