I'm having a day like you have when you burn the roof of your mouth and nothing seems quite right. Why, you may ask? Because I burned the roof of my mouth and I think it was on the Shepherd's Pie I made last night.
Yesterday, I was having a relaxing afternoon at home cleaning and I was also excited about a recipe I was going to try. So excited was I that when John called to suggest alternate supper plans, I said, Well, I'm kind of excited about what I'm planning to make. I read an article the night before in the paper about a local chef who prepared this Shepherd's Pie for a contest, and thinking back to my dream-like childhood and happy memories of one time when my mom made it, I decided it was a good thing to make. In the midst of its preparation, Mom called and when I told her about it, she suggested I make a nice photograph of the shepherd's pie. So in fact, I did get the one pretty blue & white dish I own out of the china cabinet and put it on the counter in advance of the beautiful supper.
As I enjoyed the rhythms of preparing this meal, peeling the actual potatoes, browning the ground beef, I listened to gregorian chant. I mashed the potaotoes, added 2 kinds of cheese and sour cream. It had to be in the oven for an hour during which I sipped a tiny bit of Chardonnay. It was going to be a good supper. John came home earlier than usual from work, and the Pie at that point was warming in the oven and working up a good deep heat that could easily burn the roof of one's mouth. We immediately sat down to partake of the comfort food with the golden baked crust on the top. Heavy and dry are words I would use to describe the supposed comfort food. It burnt my mouth, but I was still game. It had good flavour, but it needed salt.
After all was said and done, I was puzzled that we only ate about a third of the Pie. Then I caught John about 7 minutes after supper eating a scoop of peanut butter out of the cupboard. I guess I won't be making Shepherd's Pie again.