People who read this blog know that occasionally, in between thinking random thoughts about mankind, I go into my kitchen and try to feed myself. These attempts - I can't call them "efforts" since that implies deliberate and thoughtful labor - almost always end as total routs. Don't believe me? One time, on a school trip to Italy, I started a grease fire that almost resulted in the evacuation of our hotel as well as the monastery next door.
But that was a nadir - since then, I thought I'd improved. These days, I occasionally even offer my cooking to my roomates, and thus far neither of them has died.
So imagine my horror at today's events. After a long and truly exhuasting dance class, I came home and decided to make a Thai Green Curry. I learned this particular recipe from a friend; I watched him do it once and figured it couldn't be that hard a trick to repeat. I even made a semi-decent Thai Green Curry a few days ago, so I thought I had it down.
How wrong I was.
My first clue that all was not well came within the first two minutes. This particular Thai Green Curry requires coconut milk, which I buy in cardboard packs from the grocery store.
Today, I'd already started by chopping the vegetables and tossing them into a wok. Then I cut a tiny hole in the box of coconut milk and started pouring coconut milk into the same wok.
Here's where things got a little strange. I'm not that familar with coconut milk, arguably, but it has a texture and consistency a little like thinned glue. But this particular coconut milk was really, really thick. And it smelled extremely coconut-y. But I figured, what the hell.
I kept pouring, until I realized that what was coming out of the cardboard box was no longer coconut milk. What the hell is that?? I thought. Oh, it's a mushroom! Of course! I was totally relieved that the thing I was scraping out of the bottom of the coconut milk box was, you know, an inexplicable piece of vegetable that had no real way of even getting into the box instead of, you know, something really, really gross.
Except, obviously, it wasn't a mushroom.
Despite having just held the rancid remains of coconut milk curdle in my hand, I decided to continue cooking, operating on the same principle as a soldier on a battlefield who has yet to realize he's been mortally shot.
The next stage was to boil eggs. Don't ask me why I thought it was a good idea to put eggs into this dish. I'll just give you the punchline: I didn't boil them long enough. So when I popped them off the range and peeled them, I realized that they were extremely, extremely soft to the touch.
So what did I decide to do?
I decided to microwave them. Now I know that you're never supposed to microwave an egg that still has its shell, but I figured since I'd removed the shells, I was good to go. I sliced the undercooked eggs in half, slid them into the microwave, and felt pretty good about myself.
Until I heard the explosions, like landmines going off. I opened the microwave door, only to find the spattered remains of nuked egg spread everywhere. Steam issued from every vent. I hadn't just cooked those eggs, I'd obliterated them.
I mopped up the carnage inside the microwave and returned to my curry. It was bubbling away. The coconut milk gravy was a bit darker than usual, but I was willing to overlook that, even though by that point I was feeling decidedly queasy.
I opened up the little container of cooked rice that I'd meant to use as a base for the curry. Except it wasn't rice. Somehow, overnight, a normal serving of rice had morphed into an elaborately hard, green and moldy ball. Kind of looked like a paperweight, only less hygienic. I stared in dismay at the furry remains.
I leaned over and sniffed the curry. At this point, my wok could have done double duty as the witches' cauldron in the opening scene of Macbeth.
I combined the curry and the rice, put them both into a neat little plastic takeaway container, and buried the entire sad memory deep, deep in the trash. Then I ate microwave popcorn for lunch.
You know, people rarely believe me when I tell them that I have almost no practical skills, but I'm not being modest. My cooking is hit or miss. I don't like to drive, even though it's unpatriotic to admit it. Neither my hunting nor my gathering skills are much up to scratch - the only gun I've ever held was some Indian Army assault rifle, and on an apple picking expedition, I'm usually the one who gets distracted by the view and wanders off. As a farmer, my most notable skill is being able to forget to water plants that are in front of my face.
Sometimes, I worry about the efficiency of evolution, if we are the selected fittest.
But that was a nadir - since then, I thought I'd improved. These days, I occasionally even offer my cooking to my roomates, and thus far neither of them has died.
So imagine my horror at today's events. After a long and truly exhuasting dance class, I came home and decided to make a Thai Green Curry. I learned this particular recipe from a friend; I watched him do it once and figured it couldn't be that hard a trick to repeat. I even made a semi-decent Thai Green Curry a few days ago, so I thought I had it down.
How wrong I was.
My first clue that all was not well came within the first two minutes. This particular Thai Green Curry requires coconut milk, which I buy in cardboard packs from the grocery store.
Today, I'd already started by chopping the vegetables and tossing them into a wok. Then I cut a tiny hole in the box of coconut milk and started pouring coconut milk into the same wok.
Here's where things got a little strange. I'm not that familar with coconut milk, arguably, but it has a texture and consistency a little like thinned glue. But this particular coconut milk was really, really thick. And it smelled extremely coconut-y. But I figured, what the hell.
I kept pouring, until I realized that what was coming out of the cardboard box was no longer coconut milk. What the hell is that?? I thought. Oh, it's a mushroom! Of course! I was totally relieved that the thing I was scraping out of the bottom of the coconut milk box was, you know, an inexplicable piece of vegetable that had no real way of even getting into the box instead of, you know, something really, really gross.
Except, obviously, it wasn't a mushroom.
Despite having just held the rancid remains of coconut milk curdle in my hand, I decided to continue cooking, operating on the same principle as a soldier on a battlefield who has yet to realize he's been mortally shot.
The next stage was to boil eggs. Don't ask me why I thought it was a good idea to put eggs into this dish. I'll just give you the punchline: I didn't boil them long enough. So when I popped them off the range and peeled them, I realized that they were extremely, extremely soft to the touch.
So what did I decide to do?
I decided to microwave them. Now I know that you're never supposed to microwave an egg that still has its shell, but I figured since I'd removed the shells, I was good to go. I sliced the undercooked eggs in half, slid them into the microwave, and felt pretty good about myself.
Until I heard the explosions, like landmines going off. I opened the microwave door, only to find the spattered remains of nuked egg spread everywhere. Steam issued from every vent. I hadn't just cooked those eggs, I'd obliterated them.
I mopped up the carnage inside the microwave and returned to my curry. It was bubbling away. The coconut milk gravy was a bit darker than usual, but I was willing to overlook that, even though by that point I was feeling decidedly queasy.
I opened up the little container of cooked rice that I'd meant to use as a base for the curry. Except it wasn't rice. Somehow, overnight, a normal serving of rice had morphed into an elaborately hard, green and moldy ball. Kind of looked like a paperweight, only less hygienic. I stared in dismay at the furry remains.
I leaned over and sniffed the curry. At this point, my wok could have done double duty as the witches' cauldron in the opening scene of Macbeth.
I combined the curry and the rice, put them both into a neat little plastic takeaway container, and buried the entire sad memory deep, deep in the trash. Then I ate microwave popcorn for lunch.
You know, people rarely believe me when I tell them that I have almost no practical skills, but I'm not being modest. My cooking is hit or miss. I don't like to drive, even though it's unpatriotic to admit it. Neither my hunting nor my gathering skills are much up to scratch - the only gun I've ever held was some Indian Army assault rifle, and on an apple picking expedition, I'm usually the one who gets distracted by the view and wanders off. As a farmer, my most notable skill is being able to forget to water plants that are in front of my face.
Sometimes, I worry about the efficiency of evolution, if we are the selected fittest.
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