Thrill of victory or the agony of defeat. Either way, you're gonna need a drink.
She milled nervously around the kitchen, trying to distract herself from the oven timer slowly ticking down second-by-second. In precisely 3 minutes and 21 seconds … 20 seconds … 19 seconds, she'd have her answer. Would it be the triumphant flavor of perfectly browned puffed pastry, or the chewy defeat of overcooked tenderloin? Only time would tell. Two minutes and 14 … 13 … 12 seconds to be precise.
She felt good about this one, yet she eyed the 2005 vintage hesitantly. Too soon to celebrate just yet. Too presumptuous. If things went well, she'd be savoring the cassis, mulberry and dark chocolate notes very soon. She'd fill her glass with the hints of licorice, orange peel, violets, cedar, vanilla and pepper and hoist it above her head triumphantly. But if she failed, well, she'd just have to stow away her handmade stainless steel corkscrew away and accept her defeat.
Mere seconds remained until the final outcome would be revealed … 7 … 6 … 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … BEEEEEEEP.
She took a deep breath, slipped on her oven mitts and opened the door. She could tell immediately. It was a thing of beauty. Buttery and golden puff pastry. And when she sliced into it, medium rare. Perfection.
It was a Wellington Victory for the ages. Of beef and of wine.