I was culinarily bored yesterday and got loose in the kitchen . . . . yes, after years of using my oven as a flower stand, Maria, I finally learned to cook . . . then after Frank's heart attack, I learned to re-cook . . . going the low fat routine. So I tried a new recipe for chicken picata. Can't say it was outstanding but at least it was different and paired with garlic mashed potatoes and marinated green beans, it was pretty darn good. But . . . she says with the emphasis on but . . . dessert was to die for . . . and with forty pounds of butter and nine bags of sugar, it was down right decadent. And yes, we occasionally cheat. Admittedly, Frank is more trustworthy then I in that department . . . . or why he loses weight while I absorb it . . . so almost two hours later, out pops this steaming hot apple crisp overflowing with delicious apple, cinnamon, and nutmeg goodness topped with an incredible brown sugar and oatmeal confection. The only thing that would have been better would have been a dollop of real vanilla ice cream.
Yep, we indulged. Then looking back at the pan, I realized we had enough to feed an army. Now normally, I would have traipsed across the circle to Paula's . . . but she and Dave had the audacity to move. So now what? Not Jim and Nancy . . . I like her too much to stick this under her diabetic little nose. David and Tracey were not home. I thought about taking it to the newbies who now occupy Paula's nest but I didn't think a welcoming dessert should have one portion twice removed. And not Taco and Linda.
I IM-ed Katie in hopes it might induce her to come home but she just told me to stop torturing her and logged off.
So in the fridge it sits . . . still tempting . . . like the Sirens calling to Odysseus. Paula, this is all your fault.