Danger, man at work

My home isn’t big. The room sizes are adequate for just the two of us (and just about big enough for our dogs, too). The kitchen is small, but still has everything I need within arm’s reach. I am not a great cook, not very adventurous either, and to be honest, I don’t see the fun of spending several hours slaving over a meal that will disappear in ten minutes. Not to mention the washing-up involved.

But recently, The Husband has taken an interest in cooking, and I am somewhat territorial about the kitchen. I am in charge. This is my domain, and it is really a one-person area with not much workspace. I decide the menu (mostly), but am open to suggestions on occasion. Chicken? Yep, probably got some somewhere. Eggs? Usually. Ready meals? More than likely.

Now, He’s become interested particularly in curries

He has been studying the internet in some depth to find something that he can cook. This is the man who, until a few months ago, couldn’t even turn the cooker on, let alone discover which switch worked which hob. When I went away for a week, he kept ringing me with questions on how to work the air-fryer or where the wooden spatula was, to the point I turned my phone off to shut him up.

So there he was, getting twitchy about a curry. However much he stood there waving the saucepans, there was nothing yet to be transformed into a culinary delight, so I was despatched to the supermarket to pick up what wasn’t in the store-cupboard, and did the usual rounds to find the ingredients, as – you guessed it - they weren’t all available in one shop.

I warily stood aside

This was like the first time you let your child loose on their pushbike unaided. I watched from the doorway, eyeballing him as he searched for the spices that were on the shelf, probably in front of his nose, and waited for the plaintive: ‘where’s the garlic?’ or ‘is a dessert spoon bigger than a tablespoon?’. We moved around the kitchen like a pair of ballroom dancers doing the Argentinian Tango, trying not to stand on each other’s toes or fall over a sleeping dog. I so badly want to take over, but I circled around trying to make it look like I was not actually helping.

But then I found myself volunteering to chop and deseed the red pepper (easier than explaining how to do it), then chopping onions because he said the knife wasn’t sharp enough, and moaning because there was only one that would do the job, and it was in the dishwasher.

It was like a warzone operating room – all that was missing were body parts. Balled-up clumps of kitchen roll, cutlery everywhere, jugs and bowls piling up in the sink, an empty yoghurt pot sharing space with the mucky spoon He used to extract said yoghurt, and I ended up pitching in at the sink to keep his momentum going. He acted like Gordon Ramsay, complete with the language, as he found the valuable kitchen space was getting eaten up with things he forgot to put away.

Finally

At last, something was cooking, and the tangy aroma of a curry filled the kitchen. The slow-cooker bubbled away, and He anxiously tested it every once in a while, proclaiming it was the best thing since sliced bread.

I have to admit, somewhat grudgingly, that he did a good job, and when we finally sat down to eat, I was pleasantly surprised. It was actually really good. No - it was delicious. Amazing. He even cooked proper rice (none of that frozen stuff I would bring out), and it was worth the effort - light and fluffy and no clumps.

I let him bask in the limelight; he was so pleased with himself and I resisted the urge to say: ‘Well you didn’t do it all on your own, Gordon’, but everyone is due their five minutes of fame, and he has earned himself at least a week. I can’t wait for the next one.

Marilyn writes regularly for The Portugal News, and has lived in the Algarve for some years. A dog-lover, she has lived in Ireland, UK, Bermuda and the Isle of Man. 

Marilyn Sheridan