Of course, it's not all sadness all weekend around here. Friday night, for example, I was very pleased to arrive home from work and find these little beauties sitting on a plate: Basil Ricotta Gnocchi. To celebrate his retirement, our kids gave Pater a series of cooking lessons at The Dirty Apron cooking school in Vancouver, and so far I've been the prime beneficiary.
The gnocchi are from the Italian class, and they were melt-in-your-mouth perfection. After they spent a moment or two in that boiling water bath, they were scooped out to be dressed with some olive oil.
They shared headlines with a magnificent sauce featuring these chanterelles. . .
alongside some beautifully seasoned lamb chops. And a glass of Cab. Sauv., if I remember correctly. I'm usually brain-dead by Friday night, although this went some way toward reviving me.
Not enough, unfortunately, to remind me to get my camera out for the pièce de résistance, the crème brulée. Delicious, with pistachio-lemon flavouring. And happily, Pater was very dissatisfied with the fact that it wasn't properly set. Why happily? Because he tried again to perfect it on Saturday night. When it didn't set again, but was appreciated just as much by me.
We've consulted a few books and websites, and suspect the solution is in checking the oven temp and playing with the makeshift bain marie. And practise, practise, practise. See? Not all sadness (I can do fake jaunty with the best of them!)