I caught fire in the kitchen

blue flame on gas hot plateSo I’m a kitchen disaster. It’s not my fault that my kitchen hates me!  Some old crone must have cursed it. If the old adage is true that you can win a man’s heart through his stomach – mine would have run for the hills years ago, or be dead by now. Which would have saved him from the next few decades of culinary mayhem.

I’ve cooked a sausage casserole that looked so X-rated that my boys refused to eat it, and when I posted the photo of it on social media, Facebook reminded me not topromote sexual enhancement products as it was against their policy.  I’ve cooked a lemon meringue pie that tasted like ear wax, gingerbread men that my children spat over the back fence to the neighbour’s dog which fed the mutt for years, and steaks that damaged teeth and fattened up the dentist’s wallet!  And that’s just to name a few.

Unfortunately I’ve also started two fires in my home. I wish I could say I haven’t caused psychological and emotional fear in my husband and boys {sigh}, but that would be a lie.

The first fire I started was when making a cup of tea for my husband with our new kettle that sat on the gas hotplates. The water had boiled and the kettle was whistling away its new tune.  I reached over to pick up the kettle – but didn’t turn the flame off.  My not-so-sexy too-big flannelette pyjamas had dangly sleeves that touched the flame.  I watched a pretty blue flame jump onto my arm and I was hypnotically mesmerised as I stared at the flame running up the length of my sleeve to my shoulder. Then I realised I was on fire! I screamed and Husband came running into the kitchen.  I did the “drop and roll” manoeuvre in an attempt to put myself out.

He found me horizontal on the cold tiled floor, thrashing around, flapping my hands all over my body. He couldn’t see the flames, just heard me screaming that I was on fire!   He just stood there, wondering what the hell I was doing with a perplexed eyebrow look.  He thought I was doing some sort of german-zombie slap-dance. “Why didn’t you help me” I squawked?  He was stunned silent.  Obviously I impressed him with my Australia’s-Got-Talent kitchen performance.

I put myself out and noticed that my floral pyjamas had brown patches up the sleeve where the fire had caught.

Husband looked at me and just rolled his boggle eyes.

The 2nd fire was because I didn’t know I was supposed to pierce sausage skins before I cooked them. (Oh no, bleedin’ sausages again – no wonder he’s banned me for life from ever cooking them.) Anyway, I put sausages under our grill and turned it onto high.  Part way through the cook I could hear a “whooshing” and “sizzling” sound, so I bent and peeked inside the grill.  It was so pretty!  My sausages were bulging as they heated up, they swelled and then the top burst like a balloon and an arrow of fat squirted straight up onto the electric elements.  I kept watching – then the fat caught on fire! Oh hell – the grill was on fire! I screamed, and Husband ran in and saved the day.

Husband looked at me, didn’t say a word, and rolled his eyes. Again.  If he rolls his barney-googles at me one more time I will poke the bloody brown orbs out with an ice-pick!

At least the house didn’t burn down. He could have at least been grateful for that small miracle.

© 2015 CEW

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Why do they laugh at my cooking?

Shrek screamingI’m not ashamed to admit that I have the – occasional – cooking mishap.  I should just NOT cook food.  EVER.  End of story.

Son:     Mmmm.  Mum, you should taste Karen’s cup-cakes! Nom Nom Nom
Me:      God didn’t bless all Mum’s with the good cooking gene love. {I sound wise}
Son:     Oh… I know that!
Me:      What do you mean – you know that? {What the?}
Son:     Remember when we were little and you made us gingerbread men?
Me:      Yes.  {I slaved over the bleedin’ oven for hours making those.}
Son:     Well, every time you made them, we spat them over the back fence to the neighbour’s dog.
Me:      WHAT??  I thought you liked them so I kept making them.
Son:     We didn’t.  And we had to keep spitting them over the back fence!

Little shites.

Then there’s the saga of my infamous … Lemon Meringue Pie.

Square pastry in a round pie tinIf I really was wise, I would have given up at the beginning of my attempt when I tried putting square pastry into a round tin.  But clever me found a way!  See?

It went downhill from there though.  I made the yellow-lemony-filling bit but must have done something wrong.  The boys were hysterical after tasting it.  Where oh where have I gone wrong this time? I tasted it myself.  I tried to pretend it tasted nice but my face screwed up and one eye automatically squinted closed on its own like a stink-eye, the hair on the back of my neck quivered and my toes curled backwards. But wait!  I know this taste … but I can’t quite pick where I’ve tasted it before.  I pretend the lemony-filling tastes delicious to protect my pride.  Maybe I can convince my boys to give it a go.  “That’s actually REALLY delicious” I pronounce deceptively.  They laugh louder.

Me:       Who wants to lick the bowl?
Boys:   Bahahaha!

I have an epiphany … I recall where I’ve tasted this sour flavour before!  If you want to know what my lemon meringue pie tasted like, follow these instructions carefully {you can do this while you are reading this post, so stay seated}:
1.  Lift up your right hand
2.  Point your finger in the air
3.  Turn your hand so your finger is now pointing towards your head
4.  Push said finger deep into your ear canal up to the 1st knuckle
5.  Turn finger to the left and right and dig in deep, making sure you snag a warm and claggy globule of ear wax
6.  Wipe ear wax on your taste buds and enjoy!

Yep, that’s what my lemon meringue pie tasted like.

After a short investigation of my recipe and methods, I decided it must be my lemon tree!  I picked some lemons off the tree and went to the garden centre where I bought the damn tree.

I said to the customer service officer, handing her one of my lemons “Excuse me, what do you call this?”  She looked at me as if I was simple. “A lemon.”   “NO, it looks like a lemon, but it tastes like ear wax!”  She called over a few of the “experts”.  They got a knife, cut it in half, and inspected the alleged lemon.  They all said … “It’s a lemon”.

I demanded “It’s NOT a lemon. Taste it!”   To shut me up, the three of them cut a small wedge out and popped it into their mouths.  I wore an “I told you so face” as I watched all of their faces contort.  “What the hell is that?” one of them exclaimed.

“I’ll tell you what it is … it’s Shrek’s bloody ear wax!” I said.

We ripped the tree out of the ground and planted a new dwarf lemon tree the following week.

To read about my disastrous sausage casserole, go to The sausage casserole that was banned for life“.

© 2015 CEW

Originally posted on my old blog site

The sausage casserole that was BANNED for life

Cartoon chef holding a casserole

“It’s just a sausage casserole. I swear it!”

Warning:  This post contains a seemingly x-rated image – but it’s really a sausage casserole!


I froze.  My new young husband was choking, red faced and making the noise our cat makes when hacking up a hairball.  But this was no hairball, this was my sausage casserole!  I unfroze and leapt towards him, thwacking him on the back between the shoulder blades with the heel of my hand.  Thwack,  Thwack.  He stilled for a moment.  “Is the casserole nice honey?” I asked hesitantly, trying to smile, which resembled more a grimace.  We all know that God didn’t bless me with the cooking gift.

He raised his fingers and started pulling a long clear looking thing out of his mouth which must have been flapping down the back of his throat.  He kept pulling, and pulling.  It was kinda long.  He held it up in front of me.  Oh, it definitely didn’t look good.  He glared at the long transparent object dangling from his fingers with a look of sheer horror.  He turned to me, the limp “thing” swinging from side to side as he raised it up even higher.  My eyes followed it.  Left.  Right.  Left. Right.  “What.   Is.  This?”  he asked. “Well, I know it doesn’t look like it should be in there…” I stuttered.    “Why is there a … condom … in my dinner?” he asked.

Oh my dear goodness gracious me!  It did sort of look like one of those.  I had a flash-back to the recipe.  Oopsie! I realised I should NOT have skipped the step where is said to partly boil the sausages  which would cause the skins to loosen and they should be peeled off before adding to the casserole dish.

“It’s a sausage skin!” I proudly announced.  If I looked confident maybe he would think it was part of the recipe.  But no.  I was banned from EVER cooking a sausage casserole again.

20 years later

It was time I jumped back on the sausage casserole band wagon.  We had two strapping sons now with big appetites and I was a lot more confident in my cooking, despite my kinship with kitchen disasters.  To get around my life-long ban from cooking sausage casseroles I would be “clever” and cook a – CHIPOLATA CASSEROLE!  {If it was really a sausage, it would be called a sausage, now wouldn’t it?}

The aroma from the slow-cooker which had been on for 8 hours was absolutely mouth-watering.  I knew my men would be impressed with my culinary skills this night.  I had cooked enough to feed our family for two nights.  Clever me!

A work colleague popped into my home for a meeting and we sat at the bench top.  Even he couldn’t resist the tempting sausage-scent and asked if he could peek under the lid.  Like a couple of naughty children we lifted the lid – and I’m not sure which one of us was the most embarrassed!  I shut the lid quickly and felt my face heat up and my glasses fogged.  He burst out laughing and said if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he would never have believed what he’d just seen.  I swore to him it was just my secret Chipolata Casserole!

Later that evening it was time to dish up my feast.

x-rated looking sausage casseroleMy husband and our boys, aged 20 and 18, were crowding the bench like hungry cave men, bellies grumbling.  I paused with my hand on the lid, hoping it looked better than the last time I peeked.  I ever so slowly lifted the lid.

Three men jumped backwards with pained expressions on their faces.

I lifted the ladle and they backed away even further, all muttering at the same time that they were not hungry any more.  They all refused to eat my Chipolata Casserole!  I don’t know why, it was mighty delicious.  It fed me for days.  They are traumatised for life.
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site