You know when you screw something up so badly that you are never asked to do it again?
It was my turn to cook tonight which means I get to spend only 2 hours of the evening messing around on facebook rather than 4.
I had a recipe in my head. It was a Tarka Dal. I can’t think of that without thinking about a brave otter. I had all the lingo sorted. “mulch those chick peas into a smash, twat that chilli onto the pan, whack off an onion”. And so forth.
I arrived home and immediately started rummaging around a load of orange powders. Would it matter if I used mace instead of cayenne pepper? They look the same.
I started the first thing on the recipe and she yelled from another room “It sounds like you are over-roasting cumin seeds”. What? What the hell does that “sound” like? How can you even tell from two rooms away?
I went a bit mental on the turmeric. I saw some fresh stuff in the shop and thought that would make me look pretty cool to use that instead of the ground stuff. Brownie points indeed. Or rather the wife then lectured me on making sure I don’t make everything in the flat yellow as apparently turmeric has a history of turning many a family into the Simpsons.
Everything else went OK, even the rice. I know how to cook rice. Before I met the wife I would cook rice by cooking, draining, sieving, cooking, washing, cooking, scraping, microwaving and then washing again and end up with a bowl of rice jelly. Then I learned it was just one cup of rice and two cups of water and boil. Easy.
I tried my concoction and I don’t know how to describe the taste of something with way too much turmeric in but the word I would use would be “medicinal”. I could eat it, I’ll eat anything but I knew that she was not going to be impressed.
I watched her as she prodded the yellow stuff with her fork. I warned her that it might be a bit “turmericy”. She put in a brave effort but when my beautiful wife looks like a cat licking piss off a nettle I realise that something is wrong.
So she left most of it and this is to be my lunch tomorrow. I feel bad that she didn’t eat much tonight. Perhaps I should make it up to her somehow (no, not that my hands are covered in chilli and that would not be enjoyable).
She says that I can cook again, I just need more practice. I can see her plotting her revenge though. I just know the next meal she cooks will somehow involve courgettes and aubergines. I hate those.