kitchen disasters i have known
I don't throw dinner parties, but I envy those who do. To be able to throw together a wonderful meal and then to come to the table looking as cool as Martha Stewart is a skill I will never acquire. I can cook. And I can talk. And I can drink. And I can even execute a plan. But doing all at once is beyond my reach. On the rare occasions that I actually do prepare a meal, it ain't pretty. After spending a whole day cooking I usually come to the table bedraggled, hair dripping with sweat, foodstains on my shirt, redfaced, barefoot, and wearing the same clothes I threw on when I rolled out of bed in the morning. At least that describes my Thanksgiving feasts. The food is usually good, but it's winning ugly.
Despite the appearance of slaving in a kitchen, I must confess to being a lazy cook, much given to shortcuts. And there have been disasters, usually stemming from shortcuts that backfired. On one occasion I got the brainy idea to dry out a dish towel in the oven. Makes sense, huh? If 90 or 100 degree heat can dry clothes in 40 or 45 minutes, then 350 degree heat should dry a dish towel in - what, maybe 10 minutes? I don't recall how many minutes it was before smoke started pouring from around the oven door, but it was something less than 10. I did manage to salvage the dish towel, although it did have singe marks on it after that. (By the way, just in case you're wondering, it is also not a good idea to try to dry something by placing it over a light bulb.) Perhaps one of the more memorable kitchen disasters was the time I tried to make she-crab soup. This was Christmas Eve, our first Christmas Eve by ourselves after we moved to North Carolina. This low country favorite requires, of course, SHE crabs (no, it was not named after me, these actually are female crabs), heavy cream, and a double boiler. I did not own a double boiler. But, being the resourceful cook that I am, I did not let that stop me. My idea was to take my Dutch Oven and nest it inside my stock pan. They were both the same make, I figured, so they nested perfectly. Well, almost perfectly - they were actually pretty close to the same size. It did not take very long for me to realize that I had made a mistake. I don't recall what exactly tipped me off. All I know is that for whatever reason I decided my plan was not going to work, so I took the soup off the heat and transferred it to another pan. That was when I recognized that I had a problem. I could not get the two pots unstuck from each other. I had not anticipated that the heating and cooling process would create an almost airtight bond betwen the two pieces of metal. I tried running hot water over the outside pan. Didn't work. I ran cold water over the inside pan. Didn't work. By then I was getting frustrated, and was panicking, because these were my only two pots, and they were damned expensive, and I would be damned if I was going to have to throw them out. I jacked around with it for a while, growing increasingly angry at my failure to separate the two. My husband wisely stayed out of the kitchen. Finally I did the only thing I could think of. I hauled out the tool box and pulled out a hammer and a screwdriver. I took the tools and the conjoined pots outside on the patio. I tried to insert the screwdriver into the ever-so-tiny crack between the two pots, and used the hammer, like Michaelangelo sculpting David, to drive that son of a bitch down into the crack. By this time I was swearing a blue streak, and sweat was dripping from every pore, in spite of the near freezing temperatures. After about 15 minutes I realized I was fighting a losing battle, so I decided that the show must go on, and left my project on the porch and went in to finish preparing the meal. Dinner was a grim affair. The she-crab soup was only so-so, and I was sure it was because I did not have a double boiler. Or maybe because I had only used regular crabs instead of she crabs. At any rate, it was not worth the trouble. Afterwards, I returned to the patio. I had an appointment with destiny. After a half hour's struggle, I emerged victorious. My dutch oven was sporting a few groove marks down its side where the screw driver had been driven, and my stock pot was no longer quite circular, but both were still functional. Of course, our Christmas Eve was shot all to hell. Later that night I completed the festivities by yelling at my family for failure to participate in a sing along. By that time my demeanor was somewhere between Jimmy Stewart at his meltdown stage in It's a Wonderful Life and Jack Nicholson at his wacky best in The Shining. Fortunately, we all were able to laugh about it. Later.
Despite the appearance of slaving in a kitchen, I must confess to being a lazy cook, much given to shortcuts. And there have been disasters, usually stemming from shortcuts that backfired. On one occasion I got the brainy idea to dry out a dish towel in the oven. Makes sense, huh? If 90 or 100 degree heat can dry clothes in 40 or 45 minutes, then 350 degree heat should dry a dish towel in - what, maybe 10 minutes? I don't recall how many minutes it was before smoke started pouring from around the oven door, but it was something less than 10. I did manage to salvage the dish towel, although it did have singe marks on it after that. (By the way, just in case you're wondering, it is also not a good idea to try to dry something by placing it over a light bulb.) Perhaps one of the more memorable kitchen disasters was the time I tried to make she-crab soup. This was Christmas Eve, our first Christmas Eve by ourselves after we moved to North Carolina. This low country favorite requires, of course, SHE crabs (no, it was not named after me, these actually are female crabs), heavy cream, and a double boiler. I did not own a double boiler. But, being the resourceful cook that I am, I did not let that stop me. My idea was to take my Dutch Oven and nest it inside my stock pan. They were both the same make, I figured, so they nested perfectly. Well, almost perfectly - they were actually pretty close to the same size. It did not take very long for me to realize that I had made a mistake. I don't recall what exactly tipped me off. All I know is that for whatever reason I decided my plan was not going to work, so I took the soup off the heat and transferred it to another pan. That was when I recognized that I had a problem. I could not get the two pots unstuck from each other. I had not anticipated that the heating and cooling process would create an almost airtight bond betwen the two pieces of metal. I tried running hot water over the outside pan. Didn't work. I ran cold water over the inside pan. Didn't work. By then I was getting frustrated, and was panicking, because these were my only two pots, and they were damned expensive, and I would be damned if I was going to have to throw them out. I jacked around with it for a while, growing increasingly angry at my failure to separate the two. My husband wisely stayed out of the kitchen. Finally I did the only thing I could think of. I hauled out the tool box and pulled out a hammer and a screwdriver. I took the tools and the conjoined pots outside on the patio. I tried to insert the screwdriver into the ever-so-tiny crack between the two pots, and used the hammer, like Michaelangelo sculpting David, to drive that son of a bitch down into the crack. By this time I was swearing a blue streak, and sweat was dripping from every pore, in spite of the near freezing temperatures. After about 15 minutes I realized I was fighting a losing battle, so I decided that the show must go on, and left my project on the porch and went in to finish preparing the meal. Dinner was a grim affair. The she-crab soup was only so-so, and I was sure it was because I did not have a double boiler. Or maybe because I had only used regular crabs instead of she crabs. At any rate, it was not worth the trouble. Afterwards, I returned to the patio. I had an appointment with destiny. After a half hour's struggle, I emerged victorious. My dutch oven was sporting a few groove marks down its side where the screw driver had been driven, and my stock pot was no longer quite circular, but both were still functional. Of course, our Christmas Eve was shot all to hell. Later that night I completed the festivities by yelling at my family for failure to participate in a sing along. By that time my demeanor was somewhere between Jimmy Stewart at his meltdown stage in It's a Wonderful Life and Jack Nicholson at his wacky best in The Shining. Fortunately, we all were able to laugh about it. Later.
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