True story – I have had the pleasure of occupying three residences over the past two years (moving rocks!) – but don’t cry for me, “Argentina,” I’m an idiot. But the ridiculously ongoing and amusing theme is that at each of these addresses, the clock-timer that looks down on me admonishingly from the “elevated” height of the microwave oven serves only to confound. Never have any of these clocks or timers been accurate or helped me in any way. Don’t get me wrong – I blame myself exclusively. While I can mince, braise, reduce and plate with the best of them, keeping track of time with the help of “technology” is as logical as a polar bear saving some of his kill for later. Really, I’m that bad.
Thankfully, these days, kitchen timers have advanced far beyond the hollow, white plastic crank-winder you inherited from grandma. Get one that offers four separate timing mechanisms and you’re in fat city. Really, I don’t know who first said it, but they couldn’t have been more spot-on, “Timing is everything.” If you think I’m nuts, tell it to the Cornish game hen I carbon-dated last night. Do as I say, not as I do.
