Recipe for Disaster

Oh I know he means well.

And I know that old adage that "it’s the thought that counts".

But sometimes I just have to wonder what exactly is going on in that brain of my Beloved.

Especially when it comes to food.

OK so he doesn’t go as far as wearing a kitschy ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron or anything that implies he actually knows what he’s doing. But each time he’s let loose anywhere near a kitchen it’s like the Masterchefs in reverse. Only nowhere near as organised to start out with.

For instance, our first date.

Wisely and thankfully he chose to treat me to someone else’s gourmet genius that time, as I‘m not sure I’d have lived to tell the tale otherwise.

Now, usually one is trying to impress the other party on such an auspicious occasion. You go to great lengths to make yourself look good, smell good, sound good, and try desperately hard not to do anything to dispell the myth that you are good at everything.

So, why, I ask you, would you order the red curry at the Indian restaurant?

Yes, I’m afraid any chance of romance goes out the window when you are busy chugging a jug of beer after a generous first forkful of your main meal.

Even the priciest personal hygiene products and a restaurant’s entire supply of serviettes cannot compete with full body perspiration in full swing.

And any pretence of politeness doesn’t stand a chance in the face of such obvious discomfort, as I tried to cover my laughter by sipping my drink, which in a show of karma went down the wrong way, almost causing me to choke to death.

All I can say is ours is obviously a love to last a lifetime, as here we are still together some 20 years later, with many moons and many meals in between.

See, not content to just impress me as a cool calm customer of the epicurean kind, my Beloved has also, over the years, attempted to show how hot he is on the other side of the hotplate.

To date, his culinary clangers include: a pot pie where the pot became part of the pie, so well was it cooked.

Using vanilla essence instead of parisian essence whilst attempting to reproduce his grandmother’s homemade gravy.

How about Sticky Date well and truly stuck to the plate?

Or, when aiming for some father-son time in the kitchen by making anzac biscuits for Anzac Day…well let’s just say the troops from the local fire brigade were on standby for any subsequent attempts at bonding through baking (which fortunately were few and far between).

These days I try to steer him towards recipes of the no-bake variety, and even they can get out of control (turning a mild-mannered man into a rampaging Ramsay). Last time he dug out the frypan, our small son was heard to exclaim “so, these are pancakes, except they look different and taste different.”

And since it’s supposed to be the rule in our house that whoever makes the meal gets to sit back and relax afterwards (which, funnily enough only seems to work when anyone else has done the work), guess who gets the pleasure of tidying up the kitchen? (Once I can find it, that is.) I must confess that there have been times when it has been far easier to throw out and replace equipment than hold out any hope that it can be used again in the manner for which it was intended.

Plus I have now made sure that there is none of that brown glass cookware so favoured by bachelors, left in our house, ever since the explosion (I am sure my eardrums will come good again someday…at least I hope). It is indeed amazing just how many places baked beans can stick in your standard family kitchen.

Hark, do I hear the slow cooker coming out of the cupboard? Sounds like my cue to rescue the ladle from my loved one…

Bon Appétit all!

Jx
©2009