"Butter chicken", she said. So butter chicken it would be. It was an easy enough meal for me to prepare, as I ran madly about in my usual fashion, trying to ensure that every last detail was anticipated and dealt with.
But perhaps there were still a few too many details left to fret over, as the pan with the oil in it can attest, sitting as it did on the hot element for far longer than it was accustomed to doing. Enough time for that oil to get good and hot, angry hot for being ignored for so long. So that when I finally noticed the pan smoking on the element, I did what any time-deprived, list-obsessed person would do - I dumped the chicken pieces right into the overheated pan.
The resulting explosion, although painful, seemed to be dampened with a lengthy dose of cold running water, but when the welts started appearing on my forearm, I realised that this was going to leave a mark. Turns out is also left a psychologist scar, as I could sense people easing away from me in public when they noticed what appeared to be a nasty skin disease on my forearm. Contagious, no doubt.
Fast forward two weeks later, to the day. The Spousal Unit is preparing for a fishing trip with a buddy, a regular event at which he and said fishing buddy always eat exactly the same meals on exactly the same days of the trip. This, you must remember, is a man who likes to choose what he will order at a restaurant two weeks before going out. Seriously.
Except this time. For the first time in recorded history, the Spousal Unit has decided that the men folk would like something different on this fishing expedition. The meal of choice? Butter chicken.
You will be relieved to know that I survived making that butter chicken, but I do need a drink now.
What scares you in your kitchen?