This began when
Piyali asked whether I was a good cook and said she would visit if I were. I asked the usual joke about that being a threat or a promise. One could naturally assume I was referring to Piyali's visit. A moment's thought should, however, make everyone realise that I was threatening / promising to be a good cook...
Actually, I'm not, but I like to experiment, and none of my victims has died (yet). The above is a mutated ratatouille, which was served with chicken in tarragon and garlic. My reasoning went like this: if Disney (of all people) can make a film about a rat cooking it, surely I could do better...
Mutated ratatouille involves cutting very thin slices of vegetables, pressing them to remove water, adding basil, thyme, capers and black olives (and basically anything left in the 'fridge) and cooking for a long time in a low oven. I wanted to add haloumi, a Greek rubbery cheese that grills very well with a touch of Balsamic vinegar, but this is France, so unavailable. It can also be done as a steamed vegetable pudding in a bain marie bowl. Don't ask me about measures and timing. You'll get answers like: "the time it takes to smoke a cigarette" and "a smidgin".
Verdict from my 14 year-old whose culinary open-mindedness and tolerance put the Spanish Inquisition to shame: "tu peux en refaire, Papa" (you can make that again).
I must say that such glowing praise brought a tear to my eye.
But it could have been the onions.
