Death by Blackened Salmon

All I really want to do is prepare a fabulous meal for B that leaves him thinking that he can’t live without me. Is that asking too much?

Apparently it is.

My latest attempt at cooking the dream dinner for my dream guy almost asphyxiated us both. After several days of non-stop eating over the Thanksgiving holiday, that were preceded by back to back restaurant dinners, it was time for something lighter and healthier. (Please note, I said lighter and healthier – not light and healthy.)

I talked B out of making Beef Wellington on Saturday night (too much work for a Saturday night dinner... save it for a Sunday afternoon), and I set out to make Blackened Salmon Caesar Salad. He’s a big fan of the Caesar salad, and blackening salmon gives it a little something extra to make it more than your basic grilled fish on salad.

I wanted everything to be made from scratch, because what’s so special about a pre-packaged seasoning mix and bottled salad dressing? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve used them in the past and will use them again in the future, but my goal here was to impress B with my food preparation skills (I’ve given up on trying to impress him with my cooking). I needed recipes for Caesar dressing and the blackening seasoning, and I found them easily on the Food Network website.

My plan was to make the dressing first (it had the most steps and I could really screw up dinner if I waited to do it while the fish was cooking). I pull out the blender, puree the anchovies in olive oil, press the garlic, coddle the egg, dash the Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce, add the dried mustard and celery salt, etc etc, and whisk my little heart out. With the dressing done, I tear up the romaine, grate some premium Parmesan cheese, and pour in the croutons (I decided not to over-commit with homemade croutons – I figured it was a recipe for disaster, no pun intended). Salad aside, dressing ready to be tossed, and now I’m on to the salmon.

The recipe for the blackening season was quite simple – 5 sprigs of fresh thyme, leaves removed and chopped; 1 tablespoon of chopped fresh oregano; 1/2 teaspoon of kosher salt; 1.5 tablespoons of paprika; and 1.5 tablespoons of ground cayenne pepper. Easy peasy. B even helped with the herbs (which is great, since the novelty of my new knives has worn off and I’m no longer excited to finely chop fresh herbs).
After skinning the fish, I coated it in the seasoning mix on all sides. The oil was heated in the skillet, and we were ready to go.

The salmon was added to the pan, and within seconds neither one of us could breathe. The cayenne pepper filled the air so heavily, we had to open all the windows just to feel like we were doing something to try to survive. It infiltrated our noses, and we couldn’t stop sneezing. It got stuck in our throats, and the coughing couldn’t be contained. We were gulping Chardonnay as if our lives depended on it. Loved ones were called, goodbyes were said. It was awful.

Seriously, can I catch a break? I’m really not a terrible cook. Really, I swear it – I’m much harder on myself than I deserve to be. Yes, I definitely have some unusual experiences in the kitchen, but since I met B I can barely boil water. It’s truly unbelievable. This never happened with the pre-made seasoning mix from Emeril.

We managed to endure the cooking of the fish, and drink enough water (once we realized the Chardonnay wasn’t doing much to help) to survive. You ever want to torture someone to get them to talk? Blackened salmon is your weapon, my friend. Recipe above.

All in all, and despite the threat of death, the dinner wasn’t bad. It was definitely very spicy and hard on the respiratory system, but I lived to write about it and cook for B again. The BLT I made him for lunch today was a winner (oh, big deal, I can cook bacon and assemble a sandwich!!), and he’s trusting me enough to let me make linguine with white clam sauce for dinner tonight (homemade, but now that I think about it, I should have bought some in a jar as emergency back up). Hopefully there is a winner in my repertoire somewhere and eventually I’ll prepare the perfect meal with the desired reaction.

A girl can dream, can’t she?