I am not a cook. I am not some magnificent, domestic fucking goddess. I burnt shit, I end up eating raw biscuit batter more than I'd like to admit, and I may have struggled to boil water once or twice (to be fair, I was young and probably drunk). I am literally the personification of the song, 'You can't make a ho a housewife.'. But I get along ok. I can make reasonably healthy food as the time that I decided to actually learn to fend for myself was during my big health kick. And I am proud of the fact that I can crack eggs with one hand. How is this skill useful, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. It's not. But it looks fancy and if I'm naked while I do it, it seems more impressive. Anyway, I recently had a weekend in which I had managed to pull myself out of bed, attend two fitness classes and not instantly fall asleep infront of Netflix upon my return home. So I decided, 'Hey, the stove is starting to gather a small family of refugees and I'm getting closer to 31, better do some cooking before I forget how.' (This is entirely possible as once I forgot which pedal was the go one and which was the stop one in the car. I remembered after I took a wild guess and didn't press either and just let the car roll to a stop. Only four things were injured.). So out I got all my ingredients for making healthy shit, of which I have multitudes because apparently the best way to learn to cook is buy a metric fuckton of hipster ingredients in the hope you can impress some poor soul into thinking you're a fucking free-spirit, only to have them discover your extensive collection of sex toys and Playstation games after they take you on two dates and realise you are completely the opposite to free-spirited. Wanky stuff like coconut flour (that stuff is WEIRD to cook with, I thought it was my shitty cooking but it's just that its flour made of something that is absolutely not flour - some might say it's just powdered coconut but I think it's probably powdered death instead), or Maca powder, (which is meant to enhance your libido but the only thing it really enhances is your gag reflex), or fucking ground goat's nutsack, and whatever the hell else I bought on sale at the local health shop. So out it all comes, onto the bench, and I proceed to trawl the Internet for an equally wanky fedora-wearing recipe that's been all over Pintrest by someone called 'Skylah' or 'Swallows' or something. Chuck all the crap in a bowl. Think, 'Hey this is not too bad, let's double the amount of EVERYTHING because my life isn't fucking confusing enough as it is, and I need to sit for a good 5 minutes to figure out what 2x3/4 of a cup is. Yeah, jokes on you Mensa, turns out I'm only a genius when I'm drunk.'. So I do that, and now there is a HUGE load of batter in the bowl. The batter is fairly thick, something I pretend not to be impressed by (wink, wink), so clearly the only sensible thing to do is use the food processor to mix it up. Now, someone with a brain that functions better when NOT doused in vodka might think, 'Golly, those beaters sure do look mighty flimsy, maybe I should use the chopper thingy.'. Sadly, it was me cooking. Nek minit:
This is not some fancy designer beater thingy. Those beaters were both pointing skyward like a sweet young 14 year old at his first swimming carnival before I got to them. They're now more akin to a very drunk 50-something after a night out with the boys. Needless to say, this solved at least one problem for me, which was whether or not to share my delicious healthy cookies with my work colleagues, because the batter now held mystery bits of plastic. Everyone loves a lucky dip. So, at this point, I'd spent a good 20 minutes trying to do cooking stuff, which is pretty much my limit when it comes to paying attention to anything that isn't a naked person or a Japanese horror movie (note: I do not class both these things in the same category of excitement. Most of the time anyway.). So the double batch of batter was thrown upon the fucking pan-thingy in globs the size of cricket balls (really they were meant to be closer to small man-balls sized but fuck the police), and briskly shoved into the oven (amongst the refugees from earlier). Oh what's this? It's time to go out? But the biscuits have only been in for 5 minutes! Well I'll just turn off the oven and leave the biscuits in there because FRANK wants to go and get cider. THIS IS YIUR FAULT AGAIN, FRANK.
I return home a few hours later to find that turning off the oven and leaving biscuits to 'keep cooking' does not, infact, work. At all. You do not end up with beautifully cooked giant, chewy cookies. You end up with a pan full of batter that has cooked on the top and looks akin to vomit that has been sitting in the sun for a few hours. The solution? Turn the oven back in and let it keep cooking, of course! Logic! And what shall we do while they cook for a little bit longer? Oh yes! A bath! Aren't you a clever girl! And since you've worked so hard today, you can have a little nap in the bath!
Thirty minutes later and I awake to the smell of well-cooked biscuits and a very distressed cat (not a great indicator because distressed-cat is very similar to hungry-cat and I-just-took-a-dump-now-clean-it-up-cat, and I generally ignore it), throw myself from the bath, spraying bubbles and tepid water all over my bathroom, and run to the oven.
There are some things in life you should consider before you open an oven. One of those is whether or not you are completely naked, wet, and half asleep. I am suddenly engulfed in smoke and start having flashbacks about my birth. I'm not sure why there was smoke but let's just say my Mum was a real hit with the blokes. Anyway, my biscuits are ruined, and even though I try REALLY REALLY hard to enjoy the carbon flavour my personal touch has brought to them, I just can't. The cat looks at me with disgust. I throw the biscuit at her and return to the bath.
And THAT, is why I don't cook often.
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