My husband is ruining my life and destroying my digestive system. I can’t do anything to prevent him, either. After all, it’s my fault he started his campaign of terror.
I’ve always believed that anyone who can read can cook and have said this at intervals throughout my marriage. Derek, my best beloved, finally decided I must be right and announced his intention to take over the meal preparation a couple of evenings each week.
It was only while he was turning my kitchen upside down looking for easy recipes that a memory, blocked by my subconscious for many years, forced its way to the surface. During our honeymoon phase he once cooked breakfast for me. Through the mists of time came a vision of an egg which could double as a squash ball, black bacon, cold beans and an unknown item lurking on the side of the plate. I never did pluck up the courage to ask what it was.
I quieted my inner voice; surely following explicit instructions couldn’t cause too much damage.
Having duly found a recipe he felt he could handle, Derek banished me from the kitchen. Pots and pans crashed, knives clattered and the occasional oath rent the air. Eventually the door opened and I was bade enter. The kitchen table, laid with our best china and glassware, looked beautiful, which was just as well because the rest of the kitchen was a shambles. Surely it hadn’t been necessary to use every saucepan we possessed?
Then I saw the dish of pasta taking pride of place on the table.
“Um, what are the black bits?”
“Oh, the onions burnt a little,” he said airily. “Tuck in.”
One mouthful was enough to tell me that Derek had a heavy hand with the pepper-grinder, but an ultra light touch with salt. In fact he hadn’t used any at all. The meal was truly memorable. I still dream about it, but the tranquilisers are helping.
A few days later he asked if we possessed a blender. He’d discovered a fool-proof recipe for carrot soup and wanted to try it out. Yet again I was banished from the kitchen on the grounds that my cleaning up after him was making him nervous.
Once more pans clattered and oaths flew. Then I heard the blender start to whir, followed by a scream of anguish. I rushed in to find work surfaces, walls and husband decorated in stylish orange stripes.
“You didn’t tell me the lid would come off,” he said, blame-shifting with aplomb.
Since then he’s burnt cakes, made bread that a stonemason could carve, tossed pancakes at the cat and broken the food processor.
But is he downhearted? No, not at all. Today he proudly showed me his latest toy, a pasta making machine, and couldn’t understand why I didn’t share his enthusiasm.
After all, as he said: “I’ll be able to make a different type of pasta every day.” I’d settle for just one – the edible type.
© Lorraine Mace 2005
