My Name Is Shrinky, And I Am An Addict

So, guess who got a deep-fat-frier for Valentine's day?

And who says romance is dead?

Bless..

(Never mind, I got him a scuba-diving lesson in the Irish sea - and well, we all know how treacherous the currents in there can get, now don't we? Cue evil cackle..)

Oh, never mind me, the truth is we both got what we asked for, and after over twenty years of celebrating this day together, I say sod the hearts and flowers, give me something more practical any day. 'Sides, we did still manage a walk on the beach (as witnessed by my wind-blown image up there) AND an evening meal out on our own, which is not so very a common event for the pair of us, and very nice it was too.

Mind, I am non too impressed with this new gizmo of mine, so far me onion rings and straw chips are far too limp and soggy, maybe it's the oil, the temperature, my batter, or I'm using the wrong darn quantities - who knows? All I can say is my time tested and trusted old method of deep-frying (in a pan with a lid), has never played me up anywhere near as much as this sleek up-grade is currently doing.

Which kind of brings me to beg the question of, if it ain't broke, why must I always have to go and fix it? Not the fat-frier you understand (which may very well be defective) but my old, perfectly sound, no-fuss, and far more reliable, place-on-the-stove-and-heat-up-chip-pan, the one which has trustfully served me for so long and so well?

I'll tell you why.

I'm a sucker for kitchen-appliance envy.

There, I've said it.

Take my meat-grinder/mincer debacle of only a few months back. I've been using my dear-departed mother's ancient old cast-iron, clamp to the table, hand-crank mincer for more years than I can even care to recall. It's simple, effective, in fine working order, and never, ever lets me down. So naturally, I have to go and seek out an up-grade to a full bell-and-whistles, super-de-luxe, electric meat grinding dream version, don't I?

Why, I hear you ask?

Because I'm never darn-well satisfied with what I've already got, that's why.

See, this one promised to make sausages (be still, my beating heart)! I saw it on E-bay, read the blurb, and wanted it with a passion. This, I felt sure, given some skins and a meat-cleaver, would provide simply hours of happy fun for my unusual and warped entertainment. I could hardly wait for it to arrive.

Admittedly, it wasn't the model I'd originally ordered, that had been mistakenly sent out to some other hapless house-wife in Italy. I, in turn, got hers, followed by a panic-stricken long-distance phone-call from Germany, explaining the mix-up.

Long story short, I agreed to keep what was sent, and to pay the additional costs. 'Cept soon as I did, the bloomin' thing conked out on me. Numerous emails and exchanged telephone conversations later, it was agreed we'd split the cost of postage so I could send the monster back to whence it came. But, despite the full refund, I still found myself over twenty pounds out of pocket. Mind you, I did get a lovely Christmas card, and his broken-English emails are still arriving fast and thick, though I do rather question if the photo's he claims of himself are actually honest..

Oh, and don't even talk to me about the latest Chef/Cook books in the shops. No matter how many I get, it's still my decades old "Delia's Complete Cookery Course" I end up turning to in moments of self-doubt, most of the others are lucky if they ever get called upon even once before they start to gather dust upon the shelf.

I have drawers and cupboards full of those all-purpose-slicers, corer's, peelers, zesters and dicers that are forever appearing on the telly. Non I actually ever use. I'm just an advertiser's dream.

I have THREE electric whizzy-rounders, as well as a double hand whisk. Two are virtually useless, it's the one my parents-in-law gave us for our first wedding anniversary that I still fall back on.

With some women it's shoes, for others it's handbags. Me? I can't pass a kitchen shop without being sucked in for hours.. I came out from one clutching a brand new jamming pail the other day, despite already having a perfectly serviceable (and barely used) one sitting at home. Sad, or what?

And knives - OMG, I loooove knives! I can't get enough, the bigger and sharper, the better. The shop assistant at my local store is beginning to eye me warily these days, I fear I might be getting a bit of a bad rep with her.

Sigh.

I wonder if there is any rehab available for this rather twisted addiction of mine?

What's in a name?

It's been a bumper crop this year, when I try to shove so much as one more raspberry inside the freezer, it simply shudders and swings the door back out at me. Not that I'm complaining mind, it's just that it feels such a criminal waste to allow the over spill to rot. It doesn't help when the kids stubbornly refuse to scoff their allotted fifty a day. I've taken to resorting to disguise -

"C'mon, drink up your non-peach smoothie then, love."

"Mu-um, I've already got the trots.."

"Nothing wrong with a good clear out, you know, sign of a healthy system!"

(Ungrateful urchins.)

Yeah, I sense the mutiny a-brewing. There isn't even any takers for my Peach Cobbler these days. But not so quick to admit defeat, I thought, "Alright, how about turning some into jam?"

After all, if it works with apricots, why not for peaches? Being no body's fool, I know to use slightly under ripe fruit. Hey-ho, it sounded a piece of cake! Er, well it would have been, 'cept have you ever tried stoning a sack of under ripe peaches? It bloomin' well hurts, so it does. I gave up after the first five.

But I'm clever, me, I found a way around it, just tossed them in whole. There! The cooking process could take care of it, they'd mulch up in their own good time, wouldn't they?

Truth be told, it took a while longer than I'd reckoned. Adding some lemon juice (for extra pectin), I left it to bubble more. One hour later, it still wouldn't pass the set test. Perhaps another glug of lemon? Into the pot it went.

Well it's true, everything does eventually come to those who wait. Though I admit to being slightly surprised it turned out dark brown, there was no denying it was clotting now. Crumbs, once sieved, it still kinda' even looked okay(ish) to me .

I could hardly wait to try it out on the kids. Spreading a slice of toast, I went off to hunt down the youngest. Ever the people pleaser, she reluctantly agreed to take a timid bite.

"So? What do you think?"

She took a baleful look up at my hopefully nodding face, and sighed.

"Marmite??"

Close enough. Not missing a beat, I nod, "Got it in one!"

Hell, so long as it's eaten, who cares? Anyways, I feel a peach chutney day coming on for tomorrow, wish me luck..!

A Clean Palette

We usually have our Sunday roast in the evening, it's a good way to round off the weekend as well as to ensure everyone is home early enough for the upcoming school week. This time I needed to hold the meal back a little because our youngest, returning from a football tournament in England, had had her flight home delayed by around half an hour or so.

No real problem, right?

So I carved the chicken and wrapped it in foil, leaving it to keep warm in the oven. Clearing up as I went along, I soaked and scrubbed a few pots, then spying the roasting pan where the chicken had been, I tossed in some red peppers to stir them in to roast with the juices.

Finally, ravenous, plates piled high, we all sat down to eat. I sensed something amiss when Abby upchucked a forkful. This was quickly followed by Matt. Husband bravely swallowed down on his, hesitantly enquiring how I'd cooked the peppers..

He claimed they were, um, well, slightly perfumed?

Clueless, I tried one.

OH MY GOD - they were rancid! Ugh, ugh, ugh - I ran to wash the taste off with a glass of water. Abby opened her mouth to say something, and a little bubble escaped her lips, sailing out to float across the table.

Oopsie..

(Lightbulb moment.)

Well, Lord knows I've threatened often enough to wash their mouths out with soap - teehee - just never realised that one day I'd actually up and do it.

It was an accident folks, honest! No malice intended. When I'd removed the chicken from the roasting pan, I'd squirted half a bottle of washing up liquid in there, intending to put it in for a soak. I clean (pardon the pun) forgot when I stirred the peppers in five minutes later.

In fairness, the roasting pan is black, and I was also watching a particularly gruesome episode of "Crime Scene" at the time.

Oh, c'mon - sheesh, they have no sense of humour at all, my lot!

(Tip-toeing out, grinning Sheepishly.)