So, F, she with the emergency appetite, invited Beloved and I to her’s for dinner
Which translates to “come and cook for me in my house”. Because she’s a cheeky so-and-so (not the words I used) like that, she is.
And when I get there I find… meat, diced into rough cubes.
F: *proudly* I already defrosted it.
Sparky: What is it?
Sparky: I can see that. Would you care to narrow it down beyond “lumps of cow.”
F: Its beef…
Sparky: Gods you sound like him.
Sparky: Fillet, Sirloin, skirt, chuck, silverside, brisket, braising…? Any of this ringing a bell.
F: yes. Maybe.
Sparky: I see. And how would you normally cook this?
F: Apply heat! It turns brown!
Then she announces someone else is coming – and they don’t like spicy. Or curry. Or any Indian. Or chillies, or pepper or cumin or anything that is even slightly hot. They don’t like garlic, don’t like star anise (which I can agree on), they don’t like paprika (what unnatural being DOESN’T like paprika?) ginger only in tiny amounts and don’t over-do the onion. Seriously, the list of anything with an ounce of flavour this woman doesn’t like went on for so long I can only assume she eats boiled potatoes and yoghurt and lives in terror of ever actually tasting anything.
But it doesn’t stop there – She has no red wine. “I have white.” Uh-huh. That’s nice. She has no cream. She has no stock. NO STOCK! SHE DOESN’T HAVE AN ONION
How can you NOT have onions? That’s like not having running water. And how does she have a kitchen with galangal, 8 different kinds of peppercorn, 6 different kinds of salt (different kinds of SALT? It’s SALT!) and a full romanesco (the hell is this thing? It’s like some geneticist decided to weaponise cauliflower) but NOT actually have an onion. One onion. Half an onion. Spring onions, a shallot, I’m not proud, anything vaguely allium will do.
This is why I value my kitchen.
To add: She doesn't own a wok. Who has 11 different shades of soy sauce, but no wok? really.