You asked me this afternoon, between the no beef ruling and the rest of your day:
And I said:
Or would you like for me to propose?You never came back with an answer. So answer it now, for the record, and then I will hold up my end.
Sunday night. The two of us. Twenty minutes of real cooking.
The wine I promised you, open and waiting. A small cold glass of sake alongside it before anything touches heat. You sit. I pour.
Sablefish, sat in miso, mirin and sake, then broiled hard until the glaze blisters and goes dark at the edges. Rich enough that it gives way under the side of a fork.
This one is mine. Sit down.Halved, cut side down in a pan that is slightly too hot, garlic in late, a splash of water and a lid for two minutes.
This one is ours. You said cook together.Plain and hot, underneath all of it, catching the glaze as it runs off the fish.
Everything is already bought. The marinade goes on before you are back, so there is nothing at all waiting on you.
Music is your call. I know better than to fight you on that one.
Then the debrief, which we both know is the actual main course.
Play well. Come home hungry.One pan, one broiler, two plates.