St. Patrick’s Day is usually memorable- either for it’s extreme drunkeness or otherwise. Being a college student in Chicago, we took St. Patrick’s Day very seriously, celebrating not only on the Saturday prior with parades (which I think they’ve canceled…?) and a green river but on the day itself as well. My second year of college, I started with shots of Jameson on an empty stomach with half the boys rugby team at a now defunked bar on Armitage called Sliante at 11am. The rest of that day is hazy. I’m told I got locked in one of the two stall bathrooms for upwards of 20 minutes unable to comprehend that the door was push, not pull.
This year- and ever year since- has been far more tame. BFF4EVA was arriving in the greater DC area the following afternoon and I was in full nesting mode thanks to hormones and the excitement of seeing her. I grocery shopped, cleaned, washed my sheets, picked up all our favorite liquids (beer, wine and coffee) and in between a run and a shower, made and baked a bacon and asperagus quiche.
Our oven has long been unsuable. When the head dial broke off, we cut it on with pliars until the knob inevitably became stripped. I shoved the quiche, a speciality of mine, into the toaster oven and when I came down freshly showered and clothed (wearing my green high top Chucks circa the 12th grade in the St. Patrick’s Day spirit) I took one look at the golden top and deemed it cooked. Taking a bite of quiche, I realized that while delicous, the bottom crust was still raw. I stuck it in the fridge and headed to the bar anyways for a brief celebration of St. Patrick’s Day merriment before bed.
2 beers and an Irish Car Bomb later, I got on my bike and stated the mile trek home. Dehrydated from all my exercising, I was a cheap date that night, not realizing how mildly intoxicated I was until I arrived home. Remembering the half cooked quiche, I decided to problem solve! I couldn’t stick in back in the toaster oven- the top was already delightfully browned- so I pulled out our big skillet, filled it halfway with water and decided I was going to “cook” the bottom of the quiche by boiling hot water around it.
(Wow, I knew this was dumb at the time, but even more so now. Why am I telling you this?)
Plopping the quiche into skillet, hot water splashed up and into the pie tin, creating a pool of water where the first slice had been. Never fear! I brilliantly dabbed water out of the quiche with a paper towel. After 20 minutes and more rouge water and more dabbing, I decided my bedtime was far more important then the state of my quiche, shut it down and went to bed.
The next morning the quiche was still raw (surprising, right?). I stuck it back in the oven later that day, which worked just fine and again wondered how in the fuck I’ve gotten myself so damn far in life. If only the way to a man’s heart was to order Chinese take-out like a champ.