Zagat's bedamned

Sunday dinner is the canvas upon which I create my culinary art. Sometimes I produce museum-quality pieces. At other times it's a preschool doodle that only a doting mom would tack on thee famly 'fridge.

This evening's menu was muy facil. A roasted chicken, smashed potatoes with gravy and steamed vegetables -- comfort food for a damp, spring day. Everything, save the chicken (which I managed to roast to perfection) came out wrong.

When it became quite apparent that I had managed to mostly fuck everything up, instead of issuing a burst of profanity that typically serves as an amuse bouche for my kitchen disasters, I chuckled and brought the food to the table where Mrs. Jones and the not-so-little Joneses happily tucked into the thin mashies and gravy, woefully overcooked veggies and roasted chicken as if they were seated at the chef's table at Chez Panisse.

I realized then that culinary beauty is in the eye of the beholder. My mess of a dinner looked pretty damn good to me.