Alright, this not-supposed-to-be-eating beef gal, has married a meat and potatoes guy. And the boy wants Beef Stroganoff today. A shot of Smirnoff, Rasputin on the speaker and we're ready to Barynya.
Beef Stroganoff, a popular Russian dish and typical as well. *Sour cream takes a bow*. I only had ground beef at hand, so needed a recipe tailored to that. Google to the rescue! "Beef stroganoff with ground beef, substitutes for corn starch, signs he is going to propose, Indian restaurants near me, how to look slim in pictures", talk about a diverse search history. In any case, we land a good one from Creme De La Crumb, thank you Tiffany!
Looking at the recipe, it seems the only thing that I needed to prep was onions. I know of 2 ways to ease the crying situation when cutting onions. One is to wear swim goggles, the second is to be already crying. I thought of the current economic status and my diminishing investment portfolio and the tears came gushing.
There's something wonderful about using ground beef as the canvas for a dish, seeing the colors turn from a deep red to a deep brown. Does it bring back childhood memories? No, since I was not supposed to be eating beef, DUH!
But, it does make me remember how my mom used to cook, the kitchen was her domain and even during a time when she was preparing 10 dishes with 100 ingredients, it was always organized; dishes in the sink were done, stacked and ready for re-use. I try to emulate her to some extent. Why not just use the dishwasher at the end you may ask. I'm a Singaporean with Indian roots, my dishwasher is used for extra storage, aka Tupperware.
As the ingredients simmer in one pan after the addition of the sour cream, and the pasta boils in another pan, I decided to attempt that famous Russian folk dance step; the one where you fold your arms, squat and kick. I fold my arms, squat and fall backwards with both my legs sticking up in the air. I stand up quickly to see if David saw my dance "elegance". Thankfully no, I can still maintain the illusion of being all that on the dance floor. I set my bruised ego and posterior behind me (pun intended) and focus on finishing the dish.
The cooked pasta is added, followed by salt and pepper, which is added then tasted, and added then tasted, and added then tasted, and it's finally perfect! Taking into account that David had seconds and declared that he'll be having it for lunch the next day, I'd venture a guess and say he must have liked it.