"So useless" she said. "Can't even boil an egg". With a sideways glance at me.
Rather a damning verdict she-who-must-be-obeyed passed on a singleton friend of mine.
The sideways glance was a withering and very successful attempt to contrast my venerable (and rather attractive) white beard with my complexion. Good at withering, is my lass. She is the corkscrew in the wine cork of my dotage. She's had nearly 26 years practice.
But she's quite correct. I am a cook extraordinaire. Take it from one who knows. Me.
Mr Oliver? Pfft. Kiddy. Delia Smith would be a mere Kato to my Inspector Clueso. Though I have to admit, Nigella Lawson? I seem to have a little trouble remembering her recipes, for some odd reason.
I could make the Go Compare guy writhe in a blancmange of ecstasy. Got that? Cool.
Can I soft boil an egg? Nah. Nope. Heck no. I'm beyond half a chuffin' century, dammit, and in all the ways you can abuse an egg, that one I haven't mastered. I can do concrete egg-in-a-shell. I can do hottie attack-of-the-slimy white.
Google has got to the point where I just get a message saying 'oh no, not you again, bugger orf'.
I've tried everything. In fridge. Out fridge. 3 mins, 5 mins. Egg timers. A Betta-Ware Sure Fire Ready Indicator. Salt? No Salt? The Amazing Microwave Soft Boil Egg thingy. (Bang !!).
Gawd help me. I even had The Bear Taking me step by step. No. And never again. I'd rather have an Elephant in my custard.
So please. Help out a poor Wheelie?
1 comment:
Ever since we've been married (31 years) I've always done the cooking - I was a latch key kid and followed instructions to cook tea from my mother who worked as well as my dad. My wife is a terrible cook. Her rhubarb pies are an inch wide and a foot long. Pygmies come and dip their darts in her custard. She can burn water! 'Nuff said
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