An occasional recipe may show up on these posts, but nothing prepared me for the gourmet delight a family of crows left in the bird bath one summer day.
These obsidian-feathered gourmands had visited our two bird baths before, but for some reason often favored the smaller of the two, a gift from a dear friend who knew I was as fond of cerulean-glazed ceramics as she.
Which only made the culinary crime that followed all the more egregious.
I was washing dishes, and from my vantage at the kitchen window, I could see several of these cheeky chefs jostling for prep space while teetering precariously around the rim. No small feat, considering they looked like three Iron Chefs trying to rinse produce in a thimble-sized sink.
Dishes being dishes, I was grateful for the distraction and made a mental note to scrub out the soggy back-wash of the usual peanut shells or stale bread later.
My mother’s picnic mantra rang in my ears. “Never leave leftovers out in the sun.”
And I wouldn’t have, really. But I got distracted. It happens.
By the time I finally remembered, said leftovers, which were anything but usual, had spent the entire afternoon beneath a blazing summer sky.
And simmering + braising + stewing = full head-to-toe HAZMAT.
Dust Mask [I know. I know. But it was all I had.]
Clothes I would never ever wear again.
A bucket of hot water.
It took me a good year to recover.
Don’t look under R in the cookbook index.
I tore those pages out.
Don’t even say it.
Don’t you dare!