This evening we may have broken down and had two dinners. I’m not saying we did or anything, but we may have had the lasagna, salad and breadsticks (which our neighbours brought round yesterday) for dinner with A, and then cooked some chicken later. Not that there’s any reason why we would want to take a break from chicken, nor any reason why we felt like avoiding having an “I don’t like chicken”-type tantrum once again. I mean, this is only version four out of five of the chicken breast in mustard sauce meals. We’re not rocking backwards and forwards at the thought of cooking yet another version tomorrow, no no, not at all.
In fairness, this version, Chicken No. 14,755- Chicken in Mustard-Tarragon Sauce, is slightly different to the other meals for a few reasons:
- The chicken is served on asparagus
- The chicken is sliced before serving
- The sauce includes flour and shallots
- The sour cream is replaced with heavy cream
Obviously there is tarragon in the sauce too. But other than that, this meal is remarkably similar to all the others. The taste is perhaps a little more complex, a little more sophisticated. It doesn’t taste just of cream and mustard, it tastes pretty rich and yet subtle. So it is a reasonable meal, I just think that we would have enjoyed it more if it had been interspersed into a series of pasta dishes, or a mammoth run of burgers. Tomorrow, we will be using yogurt instead of sour cream, to create the marvelous, the magnificent, the tantalising-sounding Chicken No. 14,756- Chicken in “Lighter” Mustard and Lemon Sauce.
Today is N’s one week birthday, which is unbelievable in itself. A did kiss her little sister goodnight for the first time, which was particularly sweet. N may be suffering a little from second-child syndrome, with the lack of belly photos documenting the pregnancy, the lack of new clothes, and the lack of a finished bedroom. But, she will be able to say that she was in the Mall of America when she was only seven days old. A, however, was a whole eight days old before she was taken there. It’s like living life in a loop, a very small repetitive loop. But I have a new pair of jeans that almost fit, which is nice. They are remarkably similar to the ones I bought after A was born two years ago, except in a different size. We’re nothing if not predictable. We know what we’re going to eat every night for the rest of the year; it doesn’t get much more predictable than that.