The Incompetent Chef & the Legendary Hippo Cake

Last night, I cooked meat and I didn’t kill anyone.

The truth is that every time I cook with meat of any kind, I’m convinced that I am endangering someone’s life. When it comes to cooking, I am insecure, unconfident and a generally a klutz. It’s as if my hands turn into giant lumps, unable to coordinate, cut or stir with precision. Timing several items to be ready simultaneously causes me to break out in hives.

The fact that I am married to a professionally trained chef just makes matters worse. “Just make a roux,” he’ll suggest. Like I know how to make a roux and what you do with one? “That’s the wrong knife!” is a common complaint. Scuse me, it’s metal, it’s sharp, it cuts – so what is wrong with that? Also, I need to improve my stirring technique, apparently.

Unlike my husband who is very patient with me and who can whip up a gourmet meal in a jiffy without breaking a sweat, I need the following conditions in place to even attempt cuisine success:

  • A recipe to follow, preferably with 4 or less ingredients and steps
  • A timer – and plenty of time for mistakes and do-overs
  • No husband within 10 metres
  • Plenty of space for things to spill, get dropped, messed up
  • No children within 5 metres
  • Alcohol
  • Clorox wipes

Many of my cooking miss-haps are now the stuff of legends among family and friends. This one, for example, has become fondly known as the Hippo cake. (It was supposed to be a honey cake.)

The Hippo Cake

I guess only practice can make perfect, right? As long as I don’t kill anyone in the process.

For the Love of … Tupperware (Not!)

My mother always says ‘there’s a lid for every pot,’ meaning there’s a match out there for each and every one of us. While this may apply to our love lives, it does not translate to my tupperware cupboard. Lawd, how I dislike tupperware.

And this evening, I lost it. I was looking for a particular-sized tupperware container. Meaning, I had to reluctantly rummage among the mismatched, chaotically organized lids and containers. Could I find what I was looking for? Of course not. Not only could I not find what I needed but the rummaging caused lids to fly and containers to topple. Ever so quickly, I tried to slam shut the cupboard door so that the lava of plastic vomit would not cascade out onto the floor. I managed to somewhat stem the flow but the dratted door wouldn’t shut. I opened it another teeny inch, squeezed my arm in and blindly waved it about, hoping to jigger the insides into a less imbalanced stack of plastic. But alas, the door would still not shut.

So I swore. And walked away.

Being somewhat of a control freak, maybe you are surprised at my lack of desire/need to corral these plastic tubs into orderly discipline. However deep my desire for neatly stacked, logistically organized kitchen cupboards, the reality is I don’t like the smell of day-old food hermetically-sealed in plastic, I don’t like packed lunches and I don’t much like leftovers.

Ergo, I don’t like tupperware.

So there you have it.

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