Tahini-Fingers

This is the situation right now.

It’s thirteen minutes past ten in the evening.

The kitchen is in what you could call a state. But I’ve written it off. For something that was such a simple tea – harissa-roasted tomatoes with couscous, it’s made a hell of a mess. Everything seemed to need a bowl.

A bowl for the couscous. Then another bowl because the original bowl was large enough for the couscous but not quite large enough for the couscous plus the things that needed to be added to the couscous to make it not taste like water-filled dust.

Then there’s a bowl for the yogurt dressing stuff.

And another bowl that’s supporting a sieve that previously held draining chickpeas.

Not to mention the baking tray that the tomatoes roasted on for three-quarters of an hour.

I can’t be bothered with any of it at the moment. But I can hear it calling to me. Whispered cries for me to go and clean it all up because it will make things easier tomorrow when I want to make a loaf of bread, otherwise I won’t be able to find a clear patch of work surface to knead my dough.

But no. I’m not doing it.

The largest mess, though, doesn’t concern bowls of things scattered about. It concerns the tahini – sesame seed paste – which took an instant dislike to me and, as I opened the jar, spewed all the oil which had separated from the paste down me. And probably all over the kitchen as well.

To say I was not a happy bunny at the moment would be an understatement.

Sometimes I marvel at the time it takes me to dirty any t-shirt which I happen to have put on. We went out for Carole’s dad’s birthday the other day – within three hours I had got gravy down the middle of my grey t-shirt. Sometimes, when we go out, I order food purely based on the dryness, so that I reduce the chance of a spill from the get go. But Sunday’s meal came lathered in gravy which ruined me. I thought I couldn’t beat that, though. I thought three hours would be the cut off.

But today I managed to be wearing a t-shirt for less than an hour before I emptied a veritable vat of oil down myself.

The naked chef sounds a lot more wipe clean.

Advertisements