She’s amazed I’ve managed to get to the age of 48 without slicing off my fingers or blowing up my home
I had a big meal to cook a couple of days ago but my oven was broken, so I was doing it all at my mother’s. Her place is full of ovens. Even her wee microwave has a conventional function more reliable than any range cooker. She also has a regular oven, and a spare oven that she uses as a cupboard. It’s not because she’s rich, it’s just because she’s old. These things accumulate. She also has more rolls of Sellotape than I could count.
What I noticed, over eight hours, was that if I were as impractical, as naive and as irretrievably stupid as her helpful advice suggests she thinks I am, I would definitely be dead by now. “You know with your oven,” she began, “if it’s not igniting, but you leave the gas on, that could result in an explosion.” Well, yes. “Would you like the number of a gas engineer?” No, no, I’d just like to release gas into my kitchen and see what happens. “That knife you’re using …” Mmmm? “It’s extremely sharp. Try to make sure your fingers aren’t directly underneath it.” But I’m 48 years old, and I still have all my fingers! How would I have got here, not knowing to keep them away from knives? “Has that chicken been refrigerated? Because there’s quite a serious disease you can get, it’s called salmonella.” Huh, who knew? “Did I ever tell you about rice poisoning?” So many times. “Trays coming directly out of the oven can be quite hot.” OK. “Are you keeping an eye on your cholesterol?” Well, this is dinner for 13. It’s not all for me. But thanks.
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