Читать книгу Love Bites: Marital Skirmishes in the Kitchen - Christopher Hirst - Страница 11

MY INVASION OF HER KITCHEN was a mixed blessing for Mrs H. Though she saw the advantage when she woke up to scrambled eggs and toast on Sunday mornings, there were a few minor drawbacks arising from my culinary activities. ‘There’s always a mountain of washing-up to be done after you’ve done any cooking,’ she pointed out. ‘And there are breadcrumbs everywhere and bits of kitchen roll. You put infinitesimal bits of cheese and butter back in the fridge and empty chutney jars back in the cupboard.’

I did, however, come in handy for replacing large casseroles on high shelves. It also became evident that my services were required when the lid of Mrs H’s elderly chest freezer was forced open by a build-up of pack ice. In my fine manly way, I demolished the ice wall with a wooden steak mallet. There were some comments about the small pools of water that resulted from ricocheting chunks, but I deemed it a job well done.

With surprising speed, the pack ice returned. One day when Mrs H was out at work, I decided that a more radical defrosting of the freezer was required. What was the use of having a man about the place unless he made himself useful? Besides, the cleaving of great lumps of ice from the walls of the freezer was vaguely satisfying. Now I realise that you’re not supposed to use a sharp metal object for defrosting freezers, but when did you hear of a snowplough with a wooden blade or an icebreaker with a plastic bow? This was serious, industrial-strength ice, the sort that did for the Titanic. After bending several of Mrs H’s utensils in the attempt, I found the most effective method of de-icing involved a hammer and chisel.

After dislodging a few berg-sized lumps, I gave a particularly hefty whack and the chisel clunked against the metal wall of the freezer. Worse still, there was the slight but unmistakable hiss of escaping gas. Despite my chilly location, I found myself perspiring freely. I discovered a quarter-inch gash in the side of the freezer. I put my finger over the hole like the Dutch boy and the dyke, and the hissing stopped. Though effective, I recognise that this provided only a temporary solution. In the long term, keeping my hand in the freezer would be a distinct hindrance to my social life. In the short term, my finger was beginning to turn numb. Leaving the ozone-munching chlorofluorocarbons to escape heavenwards, I dashed to the ironmonger’s for something to block the hole.

A tube of gunk called ‘Chemical Metal’ seemed the best bet. Though it made the inside of the freezer smell like a petrochemical plant, the hissing stopped. (It later occurred to me that chewing gum might have sufficed.) I closed the lid and hoped for the best. Peering at the crime scene on the following day, the signs were not good. The ice that had caused the problem in the first place had turned to slush and the long-frozen contents of the freezer were turning distinctly soggy. ‘Did…’ I remarked over breakfast as casually as possible, ‘I mention that I had a bit of an accident yesterday?’

The court of inquiry was uncomfortable and protracted. ‘You used a hammer and chisel?’ For a while, it looked as if my budding hobby of gastronomy was at an end. Peace was eventually restored when I bought a new freezer, my first-ever purchase of white goods. I managed not to destroy this freezer, but I had a slight mishap with a new fridge that we bought soon afterwards. It was all to do with attaching a plug. Yes, it came with a plug attached, but this would not fit where it had to go. So I cut it off, put the flex in the required location and attached a new plug. At least that’s what I wanted to do, but the job got more and more complicated. As one thing led to another, I spent the entire day getting ever more embroiled with Mrs H’s domestic electrical system. At a late stage in proceedings, when my mind might not have been entirely focused on the job, I found two stray wires that appeared to have no function. I twisted them together, jammed them into the corner of a plug and turned the electricity back on. The result was a blue flash and a massive bang from the fusebox. The resulting loss of electricity involved quite a bit of explaining to Mrs H when she came home. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an explanation. Still don’t, as a matter of fact. When I took the fragments of ceramic fuse plug that resulted from my mental aberration to an electrical suppliers, the man behind the counter scratched his head and said, ‘Never seen anything like this before.’

Unfortunately, another mishap soon followed. Returning home after taking refreshment one night, I decided to restore the tissues by frying up a few links of sausages (Mrs H had gone to bed). Afterwards, I kindly washed up the cast-iron frying pan. This, as it turned out, was not a good idea. ‘You’ve washed up my pan?’ exploded Mrs H the following morning.

‘Yes. It was dirty.’

‘It’s my special crêpe pan. You should never, ever wash it up. Just wipe it with a paper towel.’

‘What? Even after frying sausages?’

‘Sausages? You fried sausages in it?’

Despite my insistence that its admirable qualities would return after a protracted period of non-washing, the crêpe pan never again found favour with Mrs H. She may have had a point. The output of the post-washed pan never had the mottled élan of the pre-washed pan. This unfortunate business had the effect of putting me off pancakes. Making them, I mean. On Shrove Tuesdays, I still sat there like a great red pillar-box receiving consignments of this slender foodstuff, but their manufacture did not appeal. Pondering my lack of pancake proficiency recently, I came to realise that this was a serious omission in my repertoire. I surprised Mrs H with a sudden announcement that I was going to make pancakes. Lots of pancakes.