My uncle has recently become the master of the Spanish Tortilla. And Gazpacho, but this is not a story about cold soup (Sorry Dirk, I like your Gazpacho, I just don’t think soup is worthwhile writing about…). We have been the happy receivers of his newest cooking endeavour for the past few Sundays over lovely, lazy family lunches and except for Bob have now officially given him the 10.0 for his Tortilla 2 weeks ago. Though he totally deserves this score, I think Bob was quite smart as he only gave him a 5.5 in order to poke his ambition and make him try again and again and again thus getting us more lovely lunches out of it.
I, instead of insulting him, thought I’d rather try it myself. So on Friday, it being the end of the month, me being somewhat broke, I thought a little dish of potatoes and eggs would be the perfectly frugal end to the week.
Off I went to the kitchen with a boyfriend eying me dubiously from the couch. Though I was cut off halfway through phone directions from my uncle, I was confident and had promised him a piece if I deemed it above a 5.5. Though this picture of the little Tortilla in the pan is somewhat scary looking, I was quite proud of my end result.
|Not so yummy looking yet...|
|... much better!|
There he was with a scrutinizing look on his face while he dove into the Tupperware with two fingers breaking off a large chunk. Now I was scared. Had I committed the cardinal sin of Tortilla making? Had I overcooked and overdone it?
“Mmh. Mh. Mh. Chuckle. Chuckle.” My uncle is the only person I know who actually chuckles and these chuckles translated to the fact that I became a proud owner of a 7.0 for my first Tortilla ever.