By Laura Hutchinson
IT’S no secret that I can’t cook. If you’ve followed this column from the beginning, you’ll know that I once set fire to my micro-ave while trying to re-heat dessert. Yes, set fire. As in, flames and ash. As in, needed to turn off the smoke alarm, open all the windows to clear the house, and buy a brand new microwave.
So when I invited three of my female friends around for a dinner party last week, I considered visiting my GP for a mental health check-up. It was like I had developed temporary amnesia, and had completely forgotten that I can’t even look at food without contaminating or burning it. Truly, I never met a dish I didn’t destroy.
But the insanity continued when, despite being all too aware of my culinary faults and failings, all three accepted the invitation. I became very concerned that three of my closest friends had developed some form of death wish, and I suffered many a sleepless night wondering if, unbeknownst to me, they’d somehow subtly managed to convince me it was a great idea on foot of some secret suicide pact they’d entered into amongst themselves.
With the big day looming, I occupied my time by scrubbing the house from top to bottom. The meal might not be top notch, but I was going to make damn sure the surroundings were. If this was to be their final resting place, I was going to make sure it was fit for a pharaoh.
Planning the menu was something of a dilemma, seeing as I had two vegetarians (including myself) and a coeliac. I spent about an hour trudging around the supermarket, praying for divine intervention, carefully reading the labels on everything, and skulking in the wheat-free section. After parting with a good chunk of my hard-earned cash (eating “specialty” food doesn’t come cheap, you know), I made my way home to don my chef’s hat, place the fire extinguisher within easy reach, and await their arrival.
But, as if letting me loose in the kitchen wasn’t bad enough, I ended up getting a migraine in the middle of the preparations. Yes, a blinding migraine. Quite literally, because when I get migraines, my vision is badly affected for a half hour or so. Not only was I struggling to prepare something that was even halfway edible, now I couldn’t even read how long I was supposed to leave the stuff in the microwave, and all the food just looked like giant flashing lights. Oh dear.
Nonetheless, like a true pro, I struggled through and served up a gourmet meal of carrot sticks (chopped by my own fair hand, you know; none of this pre-chopped stuff around here, thank you very much), a microwaveable Moroccan chickpea and potato stew-type thing (cleverly disguised as a bowl of slop) and some boil-in-the-bag rice (cleverly disguised as porridge). Everyone seemed to enjoy what I was already fondly referring to as The Last Supper. (Had I actually been in charge of the food at the Last Supper, it would’ve been pizzas all round.)
I went to bed weary and wary. One of the first things I did the following day was to text each of them to make sure they hadn’t passed away in the night. I can tell you now, there’s no longer period of time than that spent waiting to make sure you haven’t accidently offed one of your friends. As the minutes passed, the replies eventually rolled in, assuring me that they were all still upright. The relief!
Dinner party invitees: three. Fatalities: zero. Is there any greater marker of success?