Back when we were roommates, T-Bone decided (notice how it's always his ideas that lead to trouble?) it would be nice for us to cook for our girlfriends. The menu was Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice. All the shopping and prep work went fine, this time, the oven was set to pre-heat. All was right with the world and we just had to wait for the girls to call and say were on their way (both were notoriously late) before starting the game hens.
When the calls arrived and out dates were in transit, we opened the oven to put in the 4 birds … ICE COLD!!! Son of a biscuit eater this isn't good. It wasn't the pilot, there was no gas going to the over. Range top? Yes. Oven? SHIIIIIIIIT! Out door grill? Don't have one!
In a panic, we shoved 2 birds at a time into my small, underpowered microwave, and blasted the hell out of them for 20 minutes a set. All the while, the BIG STALL was going on. One of us was out charming the girls, plying them with wine, keeping them out of the kitchen.
Then, oh Lord, we declared the chickens, "done enough", crossed out fingers, and said a quick prayer to Hestia, (but it should have been Tykhe) and served the, let me repeat this, the "done enough" chickens.
No one died. No one got sick. No one got lucky.
The women were gracious. They did not mock us. But, I'm pretty sure that they actually didn't consume any of the "done enough" chickens" either.
And that was our only double date.