Your are viewing a read-only archive of the old DiS boards. Please hit the Community button above to engage with the DiS !
The end result was like gravel.
Got the oil in the pan ready for deep frying and left it on the heat while I went for a slash. Completely forgot about it for almost an hour, came back and thought "woo - that oil looks really hot now. Should be ok though"
Dropped in a battered bit of cauliflower and everything suddenly got very crazy and scary.
but I have managed to leave a pizza that was 10-12minutes in the oven for an hr and 12mins. Set my alarm wrong!
and put a pizza in the oven. I was then woken the next morning by my mum carrying a baking tray into my room with a small charred disc of ex pizza.
with a whole chicken after a heavy session. He laughed about it with the firemen later
The fucker exploded everwhere...
oh the smell
but i wasn't as i didn't have any pizza :'D
Whenever the subject of food or cooking comes up, my girlfriend always delights in recalling the same batch of stories to anyone and everyone who hasn't heard them before (and some who have), so I figure it's probably best that I compile them in written form in an attempt to over expose them until they lose all power. Much like the Moby album Play.
I'm not a fussy man when it comes to food or drink. Sure I can appreciate a well made meal or a fine wine, but as a speed-eating consumption monster whose digestion system often performs the task most people leave for the teeth, I can also happily eat food others would probably turn their nose up at. Tinned curry? Sign me up! Microwaved burgers? Let me at 'em! Four day old soup that gave me food poisoning so bad that I can no longer look at butternut squash the same way, I really should have suspected something from the smell when I microwaved it? Ding ding ding! So without further ado here are the albatrosses.
It was my second year at university, and my diet was unhealthily balanced towards slap-it-in-the-oven type meals. I had not bothered spending the time learning to cook properly and until the point where I had to cook something for my girlfriend it hadn't been a problem. I found myself to be a lenient judge of my culinary prowess. That was the night I discovered why people don't make minced beef kormas.
It was Valentine's Day and I'd spent most of the day tidying the flat (fucking student housemates) for a great romantic evening with my girlfriend. I'd found some fancy asparagus related dish online and had bought every one of the composite ingredients to ensure it tasted fantastic. Not even skimping on the touch of whatever herb which I so inevitably didn't already own. I wanted to ensure the evening was a good one. A bottle of white wine beyond my budget was chilling in the fridge. Flowers and petals et al adorned the dining room. The Gotan Project's La Revancha del Tango set the aural ambience. Scented candles disguised the cocktail of odours an all male student flat creates. All that was left to do was to scrub myself up and get cooking, though I'd not left myself much time to do so. After a manic preparation following the cooking instructions to the letter, all was well and when my girlfriend arrived she was most impressed by the efforts I'd made. The ground work was done and now I could relax and enjoy my fine lady's company. Everything was going well, but as talked and enjoyed the wine, there was a bell ringing in my head that had bothered me whilst I was doing the cooking. Normally I'd have contacted someone to put my mind at rest, but I was rushed for time and couldn't contact my usual source (my girlfriend) as I wanted it all to be a surprise. Eventually I could wait no more and had to ask.
"Is a clove of garlic one of the little bits or the whole thing?"
Well, turns out it was just one of the little bits. Who'd have thought it? The big thing is called a bulb, which kind of makes sense when you consider the shape. Huh. To make matters worse, I'd found peeling the garlic and chopping it into pieces had taken so long, that I needed to take shortcuts to get the dish ready in time. The result of this was little bits of garlic skin and huge chunks of garlic floating in the cream sauce. We ate it anyway, my girlfriend probably out of sympathy for the efforts that I'd gone to and me because, well, see above.
I don't put the effort into cooking all that often so when I do, I see it as an excuse to get experimental. My girlfriend has gotten to the point where she fears leaving the room while cooking these days as often something has changed in the time when she's gone*. The most frequent addition to dishes tends to be wine, chili and/or tarragon. Mainly because I like all three, but anything in the cupboard is worth a try as long as it's not going to curdle.
The bolognese incident was a result of one of these experiments where I discovered that when you run out of onions, pickled onions are not an acceptable equivalent.
* I'd like to point out that this isn't some fifties, sexist relationship, I do my fair share of keeping the flat tidy and clean, particularly when it comes to living with a human hurricane.
but not by much
We decided to cook a curry one evening but the only meat we had in the house to put in it was a tin of corned beef. The resultant corned beef madras had a consistancy of what I would imagine a plate of spicy vomit would be like.
but with some cockles. Not pleasant.
but with a mince korma