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Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Too Many Cooking Shows Spoil the Broth

As usual, the girls and I went for coffee last Friday after school. Kazza enjoyed a scrumptious avocado and fetta smash, Lee-lee ordered a muffin, Kyles scoffed a savoury crepe, Shazza demolished a caramel tart with whipped cream on the side and I had nuffink.

I always remember what everyone else eats. I think it’s because I wish I was eating it but I can’t because of the menopause and the hormones and the, well, fat. 

It’s quite amazing I can recall what people eat in such fine detail as I spend twice as long as I should cleaning my teeth because by the time I’ve finished flossing the bottom row I forget if I’ve done the top ones and have to start all over. 

I can go on doing it for ages or at least until Scotto checks on me that I haven't passed out in the shower. 

But you ask me what so and so had for morning tea last Tuesday week in 2007, I’d be able to tell you.

Anyway, as we sat there chatting, the chef stormed out the front and he looked angry. He was ferociously staring up and down the pavement with what looked like murder on his mind. Like, if he’d had a meat cleaver or a machete I’d have ducked under the table or run screaming into the carpark leaving my fellow diners to their peril. They all had their backs to him so they didn't notice him and by the time he’d got through slaughtering them I’d be halfway to Brisbane I reckon. 

Luckily, he didn't go crazy but it started me thinking about how cranky the everyday, run of the mill chef must be getting with the plethora of cooking programs on the telly. Imagine all the wankers dining at restaurants and cafes complaining about how their tarts aren't quite tart enough or how uncrispy their crispy duck was. 

I’ve always found chefs to be slightly unhinged anyway, so I can imagine this sudden wave of phony expertise on all matters culinary has to be driving them mental.

I felt dismayed last night, because I’ve only just recovered from My Kitchen Rules dominating the screen and I see Masterchef has started up now. You can only look at a plate with merconium smeared artistically across it once and make a witty joke without it becoming stale. I was sick of bagging out Pete Evans and I was bored with poking fun at the pretentious dishes and Scotto was sick of me complaining so he passed me the remote control.

I found a David Attenborough show about what seemed to be an adorable mummy mouse in Texas or Mexico or somewhere… there were cacti in the landscape anyway. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly played comically in the background. She was a Grasshopper Mouse also known as a Scorpion mouse, and she gave birth to a litter of tiny mouses in a hole in the ground. 

One particular baby mouse, clearly a rebellious, a#*hole teenager already, after only a mere hour of life, left home and met up with a sinister tarantula, was almost eaten whole by a rattle snake and practically drowned in an unseasonal flood.

Meanwhile, Mummy mouse went out looking for him and nabbed dinner on her trip by snapping at a deadly scorpion and biting it into two pieces and lugging it back to her nest.

Then came the truly frightening part.

Mummy mouse sat back on her haunches, threw her tiny head back, fastening her psychotic beady eyes on the moon and howled like a werewolf.

I’m never going to Texas. I’ve never liked mice at the best of times and frankly I’d rather be confronted by a frenzied chef with a chopping knife after someone complained he overcooked the harvested lobster roulade.

I know you all think I make stuff up so here's the proof.

Question: What's creeps you out you the most? Scorpions, tarantulas, rattle snakes, howling mice or Pete Evans?