Saturday, October 4, 2008
...about $30's worth of them, from Granville Island in Vancouver. We splurged. And the nice shrimp lady gave us some extra, and some just-in candied salmon as a present.
They were beautiful shrimp. I don't remember exactly how I prepared them, after cleaning them and laying them in neat rows in a long pyrex dish. I was going to broil them, turning them just once. Rosemary, garlic, Vermouth and small tomatoes were involved.
When the time came to turn them, I opened the oven and pulled out the rack they were sitting on. Instead of stopping where it should've the rack and its passengers in their scorching-hot conveyance, fresh from 500'F, shot towards me and across the kitchen, flinging shrimp left and right.
I screamed. It was a good time to scream.
Vince rushed in, assessed damage to my feet and person (none) and then started to scoop shrimp from the floor. We're eating these shrimp, I muttered. Yes we are, he affirmed.
Back they went into their pyrex. It was a clean floor. Whatever.
When they were done I took the pink crustaceans out of their dish and put them in a bowl while I deglazed the pyrex on the stove with some Vermouth (yes, it's all coming back to me now). I had just poured the rich, creamy sauce over them and placed the pyrex back onto the hot plate when
Ringing ears and shellshock...
Vince rushed back in.
Pyrex, shards of glass everywhere.
I exploded the dish, I said. Unnecessarily.
We started to pick up slivers of sharp glass from the floor. And the stove. Then we considered the shrimp, sitting 6" away from ground zero. They look fine, I said.
Hm, said my husband. He disappeared and returned with a headlamp. He might not have All Clad but he has headlamps. We inspected them inch by inch. I see nothing: we're eating them, I said doggedly.
Hm, said Vince. Then something glittered on a shrimp shell. A minute piece of glass.
Hm, said Vince.
I dredged some shrimp up from the bottom of the bowl, where they would have been sheltered from the blast, and put them on my plate. I put some on his plate. We went to the table and had a slug of cold white wine. You could have heard a pin drop. I peeled and ate a shrimp, and it tasted really good. Vince looked about as unhappy as I have ever seen him look, put one in his mouth and chewed.
Quietly I took them back to the kitchen and binned them.
You know how long it takes for take-out pizza to arrive in Vancouver?
While I recovered at the computer Vince sent a snack out from the kitchen, temporarily off limits to my person. Some pate and a cornichon, from our favourite purveyor and duck prosciutto-provider on Granville Island.