It was a WILD Friday night here, that week. Wild, let me tell you. I was working lateish and Mr P picked me up from town on the way home from the supermarket. This did mean that:
a. I didn’t need to sniff somebody’s armpit on the Glider home
b. We had a bootful of shopping and
c. that somebody would have to cook something in said boot were we to actually have some dinner.
Unfortunately, we had wasted our Takeaway Tokens for the week the day before, you see. I see election day as an occasion, so stopping off for some fish and chips on the way home seemed like the only appropriate thing to do. Which was great, but left me a bit stuck. I mean, I work weekends, I don’t really understand where this Friday night excitement actually comes from, but the thought of having to turn some of this shopping into dinner had me really wanting to visit our lovely friends at the Masterchef chinese takeaway up the road and involve some sort of salt & chilli situation in our Friday night plans.
When we got home, Mr P fed the toddler some sort of pasta concoction, and I put my jimjams on to resist takeaway temptation further. As he was washing the pesto from every orifice, I poured my Friday night single glass of wine (careful now) and unpacked the shopping. Somehow, I found myself grating some ginger and garlic, blending some tomatoes, toasting some spices. Yes, I found myself making some of my now infamous butter chicken. Except we didn’t actually have any chicken, so I used paneer, and I actually think I prefer it.
Anyway, there I was, in my PJs, Friday night single glass of wine (careful now) in hand, slinging spices around like some sort of Masterchef. (As in, a contestant on the TV show, not an employee in the Chinese restaurant on the Gilnahirk Road). It all had a whiff of the Hallmark film about it; the toddler was finally pesto-free and asleep, the sauce was bubbling, Mr. P was happily sipping HIS single glass of Friday night wine (careful now). Except neither of us ended up with a dab of sauce on our nose, and I was in my pyjamas, not a breton top with dungarees over the top, so maybe not Hallmark at all.
Still, a lovely Friday evening all round, even if we didn’t end up eating our own dinner until gone 10pm.
To be honest, the whole thing was a real reminder of why I invented that Friday night feast in the first place and why you might want to order it; why I invented that Little Pink Kitchen thing where you can come over and pick up a perfectly packed bag with enough food for two people. It is the weekend, you want something easy and delicious. You maybe don’t want to either cook something yourself or you don’t want to spend three million hours in the kitchen. I mean, that single glass of Friday night white (careful now) can only last so long.
Enter the Friday night feast; cooked with as much care and attention as it was when I make the sauce for two (although with a hairnet on and maybe wearing something that isn’t my pyjamas) There is a tray of butter chicken or paneer, a chopped mango salad and some crispy roast potatoes with chaat masala, that sour Indian spice mix that pushes the already perfect potato just that bit deeper into delicious.
So feel free to save your takeaway tokens for another day, avoid the temptation to recreate a Hallmark movie and just get me to sort out your sodding Friday night dinner. You can have as many glasses of Friday night wine and I might even wear something that isn’t my pyjamas. Win-win all round.