I've always had a thing for baking. There's something humblingly restorative about losing yourself in the details of a recipe for hours on a cold Saturday afternoon in the depths of winter. I don't want to paint too wholesome a picture, as by 8:00 Saturday night, with the bottle of sherry mysteriously evaporated and only a questionably dry trifle to show for the afternoons work, quite a different scene springs to mind. Even so, the nature of baking is precise and unassuming. And ERR MA GOD, I look so fricken cute with a dash of flour in my hair.
But one cannot survive on baked consumables alone. So when I was mercilessly turfed off to college and had to start fending for myself...that's a complete lie. In college I survived on individually packed portions of leftover Shepard's Pie from Mam's freezer, supplemented with Ben and Jerrys. In fact my scrounging was such that Dad felt it necessary to draw up detailed redecorating plans to include a checkout by the front door. To be truthful, I didn't bother with the whole 'being an adult' nonsense until I started working this year.
Cooking and baking are two entirely different kettles of fish though. No pun intended, no self-respecting chef would put fish in a kettle. When I bake I'm a charming person to be around. I float about the kitchen humming Beethoven or the Spice Girls. As with any amateur baker with a definite ability to turn pro if so wished, I tend to match my musical accompaniment to the character of the recipe. It's all in the detail. I can instantly tell whether or not a fairy cake has been mistreated in it's past life. As an amateur baker with a definite ability to turn pro if so wished, I just know. And, as an amateur baker with a definite ability to turn pro if so wished, I am a pretty dab hand at savory bakes. So you'd imagine that that would translate readily into being fairly okay at cooking. Not so.
We will explore one particular attempt at cooking now by reviewing a transcript from my life, recorded one dark Sunday in November.
FADE IN:
INT. CLARE'S KITCHEN- LUNCH TIME
Pots and pans cover the counter tops. An apron clad (Cath Kidson, Christmas 2013) Clare stands in the center of the room, staring into the middle distance. The last four bars of Amhrán na bhFiann plays away in the background. On the final note, with the roar of the crowd in her ears, Clare squares up to the raw chicken sitting on top of the oven.
CLARE
(with steadfast resolve)
Don't be looking at me like that, you divil you. I know the likes of you -sat there now thinking you're greash. Well you're not.
Clare pokes the chicken with the end of a spatula.
CLARE
(continuing)
Hard to imagine this birdy was flapping about some young lads yard not two days ago. I'd say she didn't see this coming at all, bless her. Ah sure lookit. No point in getting all sentimental. She probably wasn't a very high achiever anyway. The elite ones are a yellowish colour after being corn fed or some such. This old bird looks no more elite than a pack of rich tea. A hard grafter, worked all her life putting food on the table for the childer, popping out eggs like there was no tomorrow. I'd say she loved a good gossip with the girls, sitting in on the eggs having the bants of a Tuesday morning. She kind of looks like a Norma maybe, or a Nancy.
Clare puts on five pairs of surgical gloves, dubiously acquired from the hospital up the road. Nancy shifts ever so slightly on the chopping board, most probably just settling herself after being prodded with the spatula. But Clare eyes her suspiciously. She is never fully satisfied that lumps of meat are definitely dead until the smoke alarms in her hallway are going off.
CLARE
(a steely determination creeping into her eyes)
Well now Nancy, grand day isn't it? A touch dark out there now but it won't be long until there's a daycent stretch in the evenings again. I'll just turn you over there now, there's a good girl.
Clare flips Nancy over by placing a roasting tin face down on top of her and catching her underside with the spatula. No touching necessary.
NANCY
(muffled)
Ah here, will you be gentle. No bit of breeding in you at all.
CLARE
(turning a subtle shade paler)
Sorry N-dogg, just got a bit over excited is all.
Now, you're probably not going to like this but I've been brushing up on my Darina Allen (not Rachel, shes only a blow in) and she recommends just throwing a lemon or two into your carcass. Sure you're probably feeling a bit out of sorts with the giblets all gone, are you? This should sort you right out. Hold on there now Nancy, I'll just roll the lemons on the counter, get the juices flowing, you know yourself sure.
Clare reaches to move Nancy's leg out of the way with the spatula. Thank God for that spatula. She has half a lemon speared on the tip of her longest blade in the other hand. She swallows, bits down on her bottom lip and shoves the lemon forward to meet its demise. To her utter horror, the lemon refuses to give up without a fight and will not remove itself from the knife tip. In shock, she drops the handle of the knife, but when she sees it just hanging there where Nancy's head used to be she turns ashen and tears begin to leak from the corners of her eyes.
Pots and pans cover the counter tops. An apron clad (Cath Kidson, Christmas 2013) Clare stands in the center of the room, staring into the middle distance. The last four bars of Amhrán na bhFiann plays away in the background. On the final note, with the roar of the crowd in her ears, Clare squares up to the raw chicken sitting on top of the oven.
CLARE
(with steadfast resolve)
Don't be looking at me like that, you divil you. I know the likes of you -sat there now thinking you're greash. Well you're not.
Clare pokes the chicken with the end of a spatula.
CLARE
(continuing)
Hard to imagine this birdy was flapping about some young lads yard not two days ago. I'd say she didn't see this coming at all, bless her. Ah sure lookit. No point in getting all sentimental. She probably wasn't a very high achiever anyway. The elite ones are a yellowish colour after being corn fed or some such. This old bird looks no more elite than a pack of rich tea. A hard grafter, worked all her life putting food on the table for the childer, popping out eggs like there was no tomorrow. I'd say she loved a good gossip with the girls, sitting in on the eggs having the bants of a Tuesday morning. She kind of looks like a Norma maybe, or a Nancy.
Clare puts on five pairs of surgical gloves, dubiously acquired from the hospital up the road. Nancy shifts ever so slightly on the chopping board, most probably just settling herself after being prodded with the spatula. But Clare eyes her suspiciously. She is never fully satisfied that lumps of meat are definitely dead until the smoke alarms in her hallway are going off.
CLARE
(a steely determination creeping into her eyes)
Well now Nancy, grand day isn't it? A touch dark out there now but it won't be long until there's a daycent stretch in the evenings again. I'll just turn you over there now, there's a good girl.
Clare flips Nancy over by placing a roasting tin face down on top of her and catching her underside with the spatula. No touching necessary.
NANCY
(muffled)
Ah here, will you be gentle. No bit of breeding in you at all.
CLARE
(turning a subtle shade paler)
Sorry N-dogg, just got a bit over excited is all.
Now, you're probably not going to like this but I've been brushing up on my Darina Allen (not Rachel, shes only a blow in) and she recommends just throwing a lemon or two into your carcass. Sure you're probably feeling a bit out of sorts with the giblets all gone, are you? This should sort you right out. Hold on there now Nancy, I'll just roll the lemons on the counter, get the juices flowing, you know yourself sure.
Clare reaches to move Nancy's leg out of the way with the spatula. Thank God for that spatula. She has half a lemon speared on the tip of her longest blade in the other hand. She swallows, bits down on her bottom lip and shoves the lemon forward to meet its demise. To her utter horror, the lemon refuses to give up without a fight and will not remove itself from the knife tip. In shock, she drops the handle of the knife, but when she sees it just hanging there where Nancy's head used to be she turns ashen and tears begin to leak from the corners of her eyes.
CLARE
(gagging)
Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod(gagging)
She drops the spatula,salmonella and all, in a fit of panic and takes a death grip of the knife handle with both hands. She lifts her right foot onto the counter and places it against the base of the roasting tin, kicking the whole contraption, Nancy and all, into the wall behind the oven. When the tin is firmly in place she jiggles the knife about a bit, but to no avail. The lemon has a hold of the knife tip like Rose should have been gripping Jack if she was any good at all.
CLARE
(almost shouting now)
Nancy! Crikey, I didn't see this coming at all. Nancy, it's the knife, it's stuck. My my, this is some pickle. Except with no pickle... am I right?! Sorry. God Nancy, okay, I know what to do. Close you eyes there pet, this will be over in a second.
Clare raises the knife above her head and slams poor Nancy down into her tray. Nothing. She repeats the motion, this time with more power. Again, nothing. Clare is in full action mode now though, the theme tune from 'Bring it On' blaring in the background. She raises Nancy a third time and SLAM. There's a definite rhythm to it. Breath in, up, breath out, SLAM, breath in, up, breath out, SLAM...
(full on shouting)
ALMOST GOT IT NANCY! LAST 10, DEFINITELY.
Slam, slam, slam, slam. Clare slides down the side of the counter to the ground with sweat rolling down her temples, triumphantly wielding the lemon free knife. Her moment of elation is rather short-lived though. Her face crumples as she sees that Nancy is looking a little worse for wear. (The realisation hasn't quite hit her yet but Nancy's second funeral will be closed casket, much to the dismay of all the girls from the hut.)
The kitchen looks like a crime scene. Clare is shaking at this point, adrenaline seeping from her bones at a rapid rate. She leans down on the home button of her iphone with her elbow.
CLARE
(subdued)
Siri, call David Caruso. I'd say he'll be interested to see this. And Dominos. Ask for the usual.
END SCENE
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