sometimes . . .
My husband and I had just returned from a sun-drenched honeymoon in Mexico when I decided to make a homecoming dinner that would’ve wowed Julia Child.
I wanted to make the evening an absolute surprise, so I secretly made my way to our local library to scour cookbooks and magazines. I read recipe after recipe but nothing jumped off the page. At least, nothing my Hamburger Helper cooking repertoire could realistically create. I was almost ready to give up when I stumbled across the perfect solution.
Kitchen and home entertaining goddess, Martha Stewart came to my rescue with a gorgeous photo-shoot featuring a complete menu, the centerpiece a 40-clove garlic chicken roasted to a golden brown. Wilted spinach and lemon wedges edged in around the serving platter, while a decadent chocolate cake perched in the background. Two crystal wineglasses reflected the flickers of light from perfectly placed tea light candles.
Not only was the ingredient list easily laid out, the menu came with step-by-step directions, pictures included, and a timeline of when to make each dish in order to serve a piping hot dinner exactly when company arrived!
A timeline! I was sold.
I started making photocopies of the recipes, but when the librarian learned what I was up to – she graciously gave me the somewhat tattered magazine and wished me well.
Off I went to the grocery store. I’d made it halfway down my list of ingredients when I was derailed by garlic.
The recipe called for 40 peeled cloves of garlic.
I realized that aside from garlic powder, I had never actually used fresh garlic in my life. Circling the produce section, I finally found a basket filled with the papery white bulbs. As I grabbed a clear produce bag and began filling it up, I couldn’t help but think – “Dang, this sure is a lot of garlic.” But it was 40-clove chicken after all, and Martha Stewart hadn’t made millions of bucks selling cookbooks by not knowing what she was doing.
Unfortunately, I only made it to 26 “cloves” before the basket ran empty. There was simply no more fresh garlic to be had in the store. Running short on time, I decided to wing it and make 26-clove garlic chicken instead.
At first, the timeline and prep work went according to plan. I successfully measured the ingredients for the cake and managed not to burn it in the oven. Next, while the cake cooled, the menu plan told me it was time to prep my garlic for the chicken.
My heart sank as I cracked open the first clove and was stunned to find 20 or so little petals in the clove!
“Oh Martha,” I groaned. “You made this sound so easy.”
I peeled and peeled and peeled garlic until my fingertips ached and my eyes burned from the fumes. A vampire wouldn’t have come within fifty miles of our house.
As the little mounds of garlic petals started to pile up, I struggled to understand how I was going to accomplish the next step. Somehow, I was supposed to slip all this garlic under the skin of a whole roasting chicken, and tuck any remaining cloves in the cavity to imbue the poultry with a succulent garlic flavor.
I did as the recipe said and was able to slide maybe ten percent of this massive pile of garlic under the skin. Next, I stuffed fistfuls of garlic in the cavity but soon that too filled up. There was simply nowhere else for the garlic to go.
In a final burst of doomed inspiration, I heaped handfuls of the garlic into my roasting pan until I filled in every nook and cranny, yet there was still more garlic left! I hadn’t peeled all this garlic for nothing; I was going to use every last bit of it. I piled the rest on top of the bird and into the oven it went.
The oven timer chimed just as my new husband pulled in the driveway. I quickly shooed him away from the kitchen as soon as he walked in the door so I could finish the last touches and carve the chicken.
I tried to recreate Martha’s photo shoot and decorated our small dining table with a dozen tea light candles. The flowers in the vase were artificial but courtesy of a gorgeous wedding gift, the crystal goblets were real. I’d lucked out and gotten a decent Chardonnay and just like Martha’s table, the crystal glasses really did catch the candlelight beautifully. I beamed with pride.
Not too shabby for a newlywed, I thought.
I eagerly announced to my husband that dinner was served!
He grinned from ear to ear as he caught sight of the table. I served him a glass of wine and insisted on serving him a plate, including of course, a gigantic slice of roasted chicken.
Eagerly, I studied his face as he took a bite.
“Well, what do you think?” I asked, hopeful that I’d hit the mark.
Smiling, he nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.
A wave of relief washed over me. I explained my secret recon mission and how I’d acquired my menu and how the awesome librarian even gave me a copy of the magazine – which I presented with a flourish. I conveniently left out my failure to find the whole 40 cloves needed for the recipe and instead highlighted how I’d successfully recreated a gourmet meal.
I had been yammering away while he wolfed down his dinner. When he asked for seconds, it left me speechless. In that moment, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Seconds! He’d loved it!
About three hours later, both of our tummies gurgled in distress. As we chewed on a handful of antacids and clutched our very vocal midsections, my sweet husband asked the question of the hour.
“Honey, how much garlic did you say you used in that chicken?”
My eyes welled with tears as I confessed that I hadn’t really made him 40-clove garlic chicken, instead it was only 26. By the time I ended my sordid tale, my husband was dying laughing.
“Well, I’m glad to see you think this is so funny!” I snapped, and began to sob. He scooped me up in a big hug.
“Sweetheart – I’m not laughing at your dinner,” he cried as he wiped his eyes, and explained the difference between a bulb of garlic and the cloves inside it.
“Oh no…,” I whispered.
A quick internet search revealed there are approximately 15 cloves of garlic in a bulb. At 26 bulbs, I’d used nearly 400 cloves of garlic.
“No wonder it took forever to peel!” I said, both of us now laughing despite our aching bellies. “I can’t believe you asked for seconds.”
“Me neither,” he said and we both hugged each other, praying our tummies would make it through the night.
With 400 cloves instead of 40, we tested the “in sickness and health” clause of our vows during our first week of marriage, and queasily survived – in the same way we still do years later; lots of love and even more laughter.
I wanted to make the evening an absolute surprise, so I secretly made my way to our local library to scour cookbooks and magazines. I read recipe after recipe but nothing jumped off the page. At least, nothing my Hamburger Helper cooking repertoire could realistically create. I was almost ready to give up when I stumbled across the perfect solution.
Kitchen and home entertaining goddess, Martha Stewart came to my rescue with a gorgeous photo-shoot featuring a complete menu, the centerpiece a 40-clove garlic chicken roasted to a golden brown. Wilted spinach and lemon wedges edged in around the serving platter, while a decadent chocolate cake perched in the background. Two crystal wineglasses reflected the flickers of light from perfectly placed tea light candles.
Not only was the ingredient list easily laid out, the menu came with step-by-step directions, pictures included, and a timeline of when to make each dish in order to serve a piping hot dinner exactly when company arrived!
A timeline! I was sold.
I started making photocopies of the recipes, but when the librarian learned what I was up to – she graciously gave me the somewhat tattered magazine and wished me well.
Off I went to the grocery store. I’d made it halfway down my list of ingredients when I was derailed by garlic.
The recipe called for 40 peeled cloves of garlic.
I realized that aside from garlic powder, I had never actually used fresh garlic in my life. Circling the produce section, I finally found a basket filled with the papery white bulbs. As I grabbed a clear produce bag and began filling it up, I couldn’t help but think – “Dang, this sure is a lot of garlic.” But it was 40-clove chicken after all, and Martha Stewart hadn’t made millions of bucks selling cookbooks by not knowing what she was doing.
Unfortunately, I only made it to 26 “cloves” before the basket ran empty. There was simply no more fresh garlic to be had in the store. Running short on time, I decided to wing it and make 26-clove garlic chicken instead.
At first, the timeline and prep work went according to plan. I successfully measured the ingredients for the cake and managed not to burn it in the oven. Next, while the cake cooled, the menu plan told me it was time to prep my garlic for the chicken.
My heart sank as I cracked open the first clove and was stunned to find 20 or so little petals in the clove!
“Oh Martha,” I groaned. “You made this sound so easy.”
I peeled and peeled and peeled garlic until my fingertips ached and my eyes burned from the fumes. A vampire wouldn’t have come within fifty miles of our house.
As the little mounds of garlic petals started to pile up, I struggled to understand how I was going to accomplish the next step. Somehow, I was supposed to slip all this garlic under the skin of a whole roasting chicken, and tuck any remaining cloves in the cavity to imbue the poultry with a succulent garlic flavor.
I did as the recipe said and was able to slide maybe ten percent of this massive pile of garlic under the skin. Next, I stuffed fistfuls of garlic in the cavity but soon that too filled up. There was simply nowhere else for the garlic to go.
In a final burst of doomed inspiration, I heaped handfuls of the garlic into my roasting pan until I filled in every nook and cranny, yet there was still more garlic left! I hadn’t peeled all this garlic for nothing; I was going to use every last bit of it. I piled the rest on top of the bird and into the oven it went.
The oven timer chimed just as my new husband pulled in the driveway. I quickly shooed him away from the kitchen as soon as he walked in the door so I could finish the last touches and carve the chicken.
I tried to recreate Martha’s photo shoot and decorated our small dining table with a dozen tea light candles. The flowers in the vase were artificial but courtesy of a gorgeous wedding gift, the crystal goblets were real. I’d lucked out and gotten a decent Chardonnay and just like Martha’s table, the crystal glasses really did catch the candlelight beautifully. I beamed with pride.
Not too shabby for a newlywed, I thought.
I eagerly announced to my husband that dinner was served!
He grinned from ear to ear as he caught sight of the table. I served him a glass of wine and insisted on serving him a plate, including of course, a gigantic slice of roasted chicken.
Eagerly, I studied his face as he took a bite.
“Well, what do you think?” I asked, hopeful that I’d hit the mark.
Smiling, he nodded and gave me a thumbs-up.
A wave of relief washed over me. I explained my secret recon mission and how I’d acquired my menu and how the awesome librarian even gave me a copy of the magazine – which I presented with a flourish. I conveniently left out my failure to find the whole 40 cloves needed for the recipe and instead highlighted how I’d successfully recreated a gourmet meal.
I had been yammering away while he wolfed down his dinner. When he asked for seconds, it left me speechless. In that moment, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Seconds! He’d loved it!
About three hours later, both of our tummies gurgled in distress. As we chewed on a handful of antacids and clutched our very vocal midsections, my sweet husband asked the question of the hour.
“Honey, how much garlic did you say you used in that chicken?”
My eyes welled with tears as I confessed that I hadn’t really made him 40-clove garlic chicken, instead it was only 26. By the time I ended my sordid tale, my husband was dying laughing.
“Well, I’m glad to see you think this is so funny!” I snapped, and began to sob. He scooped me up in a big hug.
“Sweetheart – I’m not laughing at your dinner,” he cried as he wiped his eyes, and explained the difference between a bulb of garlic and the cloves inside it.
“Oh no…,” I whispered.
A quick internet search revealed there are approximately 15 cloves of garlic in a bulb. At 26 bulbs, I’d used nearly 400 cloves of garlic.
“No wonder it took forever to peel!” I said, both of us now laughing despite our aching bellies. “I can’t believe you asked for seconds.”
“Me neither,” he said and we both hugged each other, praying our tummies would make it through the night.
With 400 cloves instead of 40, we tested the “in sickness and health” clause of our vows during our first week of marriage, and queasily survived – in the same way we still do years later; lots of love and even more laughter.