Welsh Rarebit? Joke's on me.

A few weeks ago I skinned a rabbit for a future project and froze the meat until the time was right for a meal.  That time was two days ago when I accidentally defrosted said rabbit and not the ground raw rabbit meal intended for the cats.  Still coming out of my derby stupor (amongst other jobs) I threw my human food rabbit into a marinade comprised of a Budweiser (door prize beer; my husband and his friends play this game of leaving a shitty beer in the fridge door for one another.  I don't drink beer so I don't get it, apparently) and agave syrup with a healthy dash of salt and bay leaves.  My anemic culinary muscle twitched and I hoped fo the best.







I searched for a rabbit recipe on one of my husband's favorite blogs, Glutton for Life.  This yielded a fascinating entry about Welsh Rarebit, with instructions, so I hastily ("I'm late, I'm late!" ) jotted down the crap I needed to buy and caught the train to whatever job I had to work that day.



That day turned into a clusterfuck of late trains and rainy weather and I had to walk too far carrying too much in the cold to even talk about.  Regardless, it was one of those times where I was eager for a hot meal consisting of warm meat and butter and bread. Then I really read the recipe and laughed at myself.



There is no rabbit in Welsh Rarebit.



I don't know if it's a joke or what but there was no turning back at this point.  I put the meat on a skillet and just figured I could incorporate it into the meal.



 







 



That is Jim showing me how to "stream" liquid in to the pan.  Apparently I wasn't doing it right.



 



When it was all said and done, the whole thing seemed to me like a glorified shit on a shingle.







The color and consistency were drab, gross, even... but the taste was dripping with warm, fatty blissful COMFORT.







Jim took a picture from his side of the table of me eating.  He was kind enough to greet me at the door with a towel and my bathrobe, which I was still wearing come dinner time. This image would perfectly encapsulate the idea of warm and cozy nights, except my hands are so fucked up.  I hurt them a bit with all the delicate work I've done on Derby stuff (plus aerial training) the last few weeks but JESUS, I've never wanted to go to finishing school more than I do now, looking at my awkward paws man-handling the fork and knife like some savage.  If I'm ever going to famous I need to be composed around a table setting, for crying out loud.







 



So that's the Diamond Tooth version of Welsh Rarebit. It was tasty, gooey and good.  Not good enough to repeat, but a moment in time worth noting nonetheless.