the meal of glass and other tales of cooking triumph
Last week we roasted a chicken – I say we because TA started the process, he followed Jamie Oliver’s instructions to the letter, every one of them except the bit where it said put the chicken in a preheated oven. TA, ever one for originality, put the chicken under a preheated grill, covered in foil, breast-side down. Hunger eventually drove me to the kitchen where I discovered his error(s); the chicken was eventually ready at around 10pm that night. I was not happy!
I made a chicken curry with the remaining meat the following night and TA had the leftovers for lunch the next day. It was a bit crunchier than he remembered from its previous outing; chicken bones? He crunched on happily until he noticed a fragment of glass on his plate. We cannot figure out how it came to be in the curry, the rice or the tub of leftovers and TA spent a day or two with stomach ache saying, “One of the best ways of killing a person is to feed them glass you know.” Great.
This morning I unexpectedly found myself with 20 minutes before I needed to leave for work. I chopped carrots, leeks, half a swede and made a sausage casserole for the slow cooker. We keep the slow cooker in our bedroom to avoid imposing on the housemates as it takes up a fair amount of work surface. (You can see where this is going can’t you?) I carried the pot into the bedroom and was in the middle of asking TA to set it up – a towel on the carpet and on top of that a slate to protect the floor from heat and the chance of spitting or splashing – when my wrist knocked against the door handle and the pot slipped from my grasp. Tomatoes, oil, veggies…all over the once-upon-a-time cream-coloured carpet and, at my feet, a broken slow cooker.
Please rewind. Please rewind to before I dropped the pot, before I unwittingly fed my husband glass, before TA mis-cooked the chicken, before we moved to the Palais. Either that or please fast forward. Fast forward to a time when we are settled in our new home, when the mornings aren’t a whirlwind of trying to do ten things at once – dancing around housemates and queuing for access to the fridge, the bathroom, the cupboards. Because right now everything feels as though it is slipping though my fingers.
Looking on the bright side, e-mail from our solicitor tells me that she has “got most of the papers, will be going through them and providing [me] with [her] report shortly” – just as well since today is the deadline for handing in our notice if we want to leave on the same date as Housemate M. I can’t wait to start the six-week countdown. Although, note the worrying use of the word “most” in the above sentence.