So I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but there’s this hilarious youtube series called My Drunk Kitchen. It’s a simple principle really. A really funny chick gets absolutely smashed on booze, then cooks something – all on video! Now, I don’t normally condone binge drinking or the use of kitchen appliances (that are sharp or hot) while intoxicated, but seriously. That sh*t makes me laugh out loud. Like total LOL.
My favourite My Drunk Kitchen vid.
Which gets me thinking – what if you were a fly on the wall in my kitchen? Maybe I should start a series called My Pregnant Kitchen.
Today as I buzzed around trying to make about three things at once, I realised just how ridiculous I am.
Imagine making cupcakes, fresh bread rolls (for the first time ever) and a savoury mince all at once.
Timers going off everywhere. Flour on everything. Dishes stacked upon dishes. A crazy woman (that’s me) in a caftan while the heater is on (hey – it’s PUPPP rash friendly clothing) in the middle of winter.
At some point in the middle of all of it, I was tweeting. I was doing internet banking. I was watching Oprah (from another room – that takes skill). I was getting ingredients ALL over my bump (which sticks out a bit now that I’m in the 23rd week), because I realised I couldn’t get up as close to the kitchen bench as I usually would. Turns out there’s this extra spillage space created now. Every now and then I would stop, stare at the offending food particles, dust them off or sneak a taste because hey, no-one was looking.
I was kneading dough like a madwoman. I was that into it that it took me half the time the recipe specified to make it “smooth and elastic”. I was chopping vegetables frantically while browning minced beef on the stove. I was frosting cupcakes while baking bread rolls. I was a machine. I was washing dirty dishes so I could use them straight away again for something else. I was mentally planning out the week’s budget. I was mumbling to myself (but very quietly because the Husband Man was sleeping off a night shift) in a demented manner.
“How the hell do I know if the milk is too warm or not warm enough? And when the hell is the yeast/milk concoction considered frothy? Is that frothy? It kind of bubbles when I tip it. This is so frickin’ weird. Is this going to turn out? I’m expecting an epic fail on the bread roll situation.“
I was fielding emails and social invitations. I was reading recipes and then forgetting what they said and reading them again less than a minute later to remind myself (baby brain). At some point I wandered off and started folding towels from the pile of clean washing in the spare room.
While finely chopping onions I started to cry. And then I couldn’t figure out if it was really the onions or my crazy hormones. I really am elegant as f*ck.
You would have seen me remove the flour from the pantry. Use it in a recipe. Put it back in the pantry. Realise I needed it again for something else. Take it out of the pantry. Put it back in the pantry. Find out I wasn’t done with it. Pull it back out and use it. Put it back in the pantry. All in the space of about five minutes. I am a space case.
I swear I was even thinking about the meaning of life during this whole time. That happens sometimes. It’s called multi tasking, bitches.
And no, after all that I can’t actually tell you the meaning of life. I was too busy hoping my bread rolls would turn out OK and that my cupcakes weren’t going to end up like little rocks to pay attention to silly things like the meaning of life. Who knows? Maybe I even figured it out at some point, but forgot it again. Now we’ll never know what it is. I wonder how much wisdom is lost this way? I might be a spiritual guru and not even know it.
You know those pictures of ladies who look so serene, wearing their 50s pin up style immaculate hair and pristine dresses with the full skirts? The ones you see gently stirring a cupcake batter, while calmly keeping an eye on the stove?
Yeah, I’m nothing like that.
I’m more like a kitchen tornado. The anti Master Chef if you will.
I managed to serve up a lovely feed of fresh, hot rolls with savoury mince to Husband Features. His dessert was a set of cupcakes with I <3 U written on them (yeah how adorably corny and spew worthy). The dishes looked superb (while the kitchen did not), but I collapsed on the couch looking like I’d been dragged through a nightclub at 3am backwards. By a really big bouncer.
It’s hard work being a housewife. I think I’m doing it wrong. Maybe I’m too sober?
Either way, I’m kind of glad my nesting fever has come back
What’s your kitchen style?