While I’ve been, as I like to call it, professionally resting, I have been doing a lot of cooking. The kitchen has become my second home.
If somewhere that is already in your home can become another home. A home within a home is a little bit Inception-y for my liking. Also, it’s not really a second home. It’s still just a room. A home would imply that I could sleep, bathe and relax in there. Mind you, during the bathroom debacle I suppose I did bathe in there for about three months, so maybe it is like a second home. Maybe a caravan.
What was I on about?
Oh yes, the kitchen.
I have spent a long time in the kitchen over the past however many months. I have tried new recipes and got better at old ones. I have used things that we’ve bought and not used. The food processor has seen more action in the last couple of months than in the previous however many years we’ve had it.
And in all that time, I have survived more-or-less injury free. I have suffered no cuts from vigorous chopping. I have suffered no burns for oven shelves or trays. Nothing. Not a sausage. There was an incident when I dropped the bottle of soy sauce and it sprayed everywhere, but that wasn’t pain-inducing. That was more of a chore because, even several days later, it was becoming clear that the soy sauce had travelled a much, much greater distance than anyone could imagine.
So, from a risk assessment point of view, the kitchen has not been too bad.
Until today when a jam tart – a bloody jam tart of all things – caused me great pain with the potential for severe jam burns.
I made jam tarts. One of them, somehow, emptied its jam filling onto my hand. More or less straight from the oven.
So that was hot. Molten jam is up there with some of the hottest things on the face of the planet. You know, just below the inside of a McDonalds apple pie (curious thing, isn’t it, about McDonalds – if they used the same technology that keeps the pies at just below the temperature of lava on the fries, a more pleasant dining experience would be had all round).
And through the pain – and there was pain – all I was thinking was what a waste of a perfectly good jam tart that was. I could have ended up with just a blackened stump where my finger used to be, and I could have lived with that.
But the loss of a jam tart…