Dangerous things especially if, like me, you never bother labelling them.
It was Thursday. Supermarket day. Mr SW's fajitas day. I say Mr SW's because I don't like them. And he doesn't like them cooked the relatively healthy way that I do them. He prefers everything swimming in grease including, when he's finished cooking, the kitchen. I stay well clear.
So, for me, I unearthed what I thought was, on balance, leftover veggie lasagne from the freezer. But it could have been sweet and sour without the rice.
After some defrosting I checked. No sign of any lasagne but plenty of courgettes. It had to be lasagne. I don't use courgettes in sweet and sour.
More defrosting and I tried the taste test but it was still quite frozen and therefore quite tasteless. I decided to go for it. There wasn't much of it so I added lasagne, mushrooms, tomato puree, basil, oregano and cheddar on top. And hoped.
I'd had a rotten afternoon trying on clothes I didn't like for a wedding I didn't want to go to. (Because weddings demand clothes I don't like. Comfy jeans and a shirt are not regarded as acceptable. I must go to such things as 'not me'.)
It was perfect. Wonderful. Full of flavour. And it went beautifully with the glass of red. Or vice versa.
Sometimes things work out
“There is always a well-known solution to every human problem - neat, plausible, and wrong.” H.L. Mencken