Wednesday, July 08, 2009
A Woman’s Place Is Not In The Kitchen
A couple of weeks ago, my parents had new double glazing installed in a couple of rooms. Breaking out the old windows hadn’t been easy for the installers. Especially in the kitchen they had to break away half the wall to get out the big window and door with their steel sills.
So Super-plaster-man had to come to the rescue to repair the damaged walls. Less than twenty-four hours after stepping off the plane from Kinshasa, I was mucking along with cement and plasterboard.
Meanwhile, Mrs.B went through my mother’s magazines. She always has stacks of them lying around. You know the type: twenty ways to loose weight – my children hate me – the latest summer fashion – say no to the tyranny of diets – weekends in Paris and London – thirty ways to loose weight. Somewhere in there, you’ll always find a recipe and Mrs.B found a couple of them that she liked. So she asked her mother in law if she could tear them out.
Needless to say, these magazines do not contain recipes for charcoal roasted sides of pigs with brown ale. These are recipes that come out of the head of female editors that live on an apple and half a glass of water a day.
Yesterday we had our first try out. The ‘recipe’ was the following:
- Cook noodles
- Cook broccoli
- Bake small, tasteless pieces of fake bacon. Add walnuts because you can’t have a women’s magazine recipe without walnuts and because they drown out every other taste that might make the food interesting after all.
That’s it. You put the noodles on your plate; throw the broccoli on top and then the bacon/walnut mixture. And then you dig in.
Wolf took one bite, looked at his mother with eyes pleading ‘Why? Oh mother, why are you trying to poison me?’ and asked to be excused so he could go play with his train. Half an hour later, he was still gnawing on that first bite, until I took a paper napkin and made him spit it out.
Being the supportive husband that I am, I took at least three whole bites. Might even have been four. Then it became too much for me and I burst out in a detailed analysis of everything that was wrong with women’s magazines, the people that write them (women!) and their wretched recipes.
Mrs.B on the other hand quite liked it. She finished her own plate and then dug into Wolf’s. This really proves what I’ve been suspecting ever since we’ve got married: she’s one of them you see, one of those women!
Five minutes after Wolf went to bed, I was standing in line at our local drive-in hamburger restaurant.
Hamburgers, now there’s food invented by men!