The Undomestic Goddess
Page 37
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“Samantha, if you’re having some kind of breakdown like your brother—”
“I’m not having a breakdown!” My voice rises in distress. “I never asked you to find me another job. I don’t know what I want. I need a bit of time … to … to think …”
“You will be at that job interview, Samantha.” Mum’s voice is like a whip. “You will be there tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
“I won’t!”
“Tell me where you are! I’m sending a car straightaway.”
“No! Leave me alone.”
I switch off my phone, come out of the larder, and almost savagely throw it down onto the table. She’s my mother. And she didn’t express one word of sympathy. Not one jot of kindness. My face is burning and tears are pressing hotly at the back of my eyes. The phone starts vibrating angrily on the table, but I ignore it. I’m not going to answer it. I’m not going to talk to anyone. I’m going to have a drink. And then I’m going to cook this bloody dinner.
I slosh some white wine into a glass and take several gulps. Then I address myself to the pile of raw ingredients waiting on the table.
I can cook. I can cook this stuff. Even if everything else in my life is in ruins, I can do this. I have a brain, I can work it out.
Without delay I rip the plastic coverings off the lamb. This can go in the oven. In some kind of dish. Simple. And the chickpeas can go in there too. Then I’ll mash them and that will make the hummus.
I open a cupboard and pull out a whole load of gleaming baking dishes and trays. I select a baking tray and scatter the chickpeas onto it. Some bounce onto the floor, but I don’t care. I grab a bottle of oil from the counter and drizzle it over the top. Already I’m feeling like a cook.
I shove the tray into the oven and turn it on full blast. Then I put the lamb in an oval dish and shove that in too.
So far so good. Now all I need to do is leaf through all Trish’s recipe books and find instructions for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze.
OK. I didn’t find a single recipe for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze. I found apricot and raspberry flan, turkey with chestnut and apricot stuffing, and almond pithivier with apricot filling and Prosecco sabayon.
I stare at the page blindly. I have just turned down what may be my only opportunity to start over. I’m a lawyer. That’s what I am. What else am I going to do? What’s happened to me?
Oh, God. Why is smoke coming out of the oven?
By seven o’clock I’m still cooking.
At least I think that’s what I’m doing. Both ovens are roaring with heat. Pots are bubbling on the hob. The electric whisk is whirring busily. I’ve burned my right hand twice taking things out of the oven. Eight recipe books are open around the kitchen, one drenched with spilled oil and another with egg yolk. I’m puce in the face, sweating hard, and trying every so often to run my hand under cold water.
I’ve been going for three hours. And I haven’t yet made anything that could actually be eaten. So far I’ve discarded a collapsed chocolate soufflé, two pans of burned onions, and a saucepan of congealed apricots that made me feel sick just to look at them.
I can’t work out what’s going wrong. I haven’t got time to work out what’s going wrong. There’s no scope for analysis. Every time there’s a disaster I just dump it and start again, quickly thawing food from the freezer, changing tack, trying to cobble something together.
The Geigers meanwhile are drinking sherry in the drawing room. They think everything is going splendidly. Trish tried to come into the kitchen about half an hour ago, but I managed to head her off.
In less than an hour she and Eddie are going to be sitting down at the table expecting a gourmet meal. Shaking out their napkins with anticipation, pouring out their mineral water and wine.
A kind of frenzied hysteria has come over me. I know I cannot do this, but somehow I can’t give up either. I keep thinking a miracle will happen. I’ll pull it all together. I’ll manage it somehow—
Oh, God, the gravy’s bubbling over.
I shove the oven door shut, grab a spoon, and start stirring it. It looks like revolting lumpy brown water. Frantically I start searching in the cupboards for something to chuck in. Flour. Cornstarch. Something like that. This’ll do. I grab a small pot and shake in vigorous amounts of the white powder, then wipe the sweat off my brow. OK. What now?
Suddenly I remember the egg whites, still whisking up in their bowl. I grab the recipe book, running my finger down the page. I changed the dessert course to pavlova after I chanced upon the line in a recipe book: Meringues are so easy to make.
“I’m not having a breakdown!” My voice rises in distress. “I never asked you to find me another job. I don’t know what I want. I need a bit of time … to … to think …”
“You will be at that job interview, Samantha.” Mum’s voice is like a whip. “You will be there tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
“I won’t!”
“Tell me where you are! I’m sending a car straightaway.”
“No! Leave me alone.”
I switch off my phone, come out of the larder, and almost savagely throw it down onto the table. She’s my mother. And she didn’t express one word of sympathy. Not one jot of kindness. My face is burning and tears are pressing hotly at the back of my eyes. The phone starts vibrating angrily on the table, but I ignore it. I’m not going to answer it. I’m not going to talk to anyone. I’m going to have a drink. And then I’m going to cook this bloody dinner.
I slosh some white wine into a glass and take several gulps. Then I address myself to the pile of raw ingredients waiting on the table.
I can cook. I can cook this stuff. Even if everything else in my life is in ruins, I can do this. I have a brain, I can work it out.
Without delay I rip the plastic coverings off the lamb. This can go in the oven. In some kind of dish. Simple. And the chickpeas can go in there too. Then I’ll mash them and that will make the hummus.
I open a cupboard and pull out a whole load of gleaming baking dishes and trays. I select a baking tray and scatter the chickpeas onto it. Some bounce onto the floor, but I don’t care. I grab a bottle of oil from the counter and drizzle it over the top. Already I’m feeling like a cook.
I shove the tray into the oven and turn it on full blast. Then I put the lamb in an oval dish and shove that in too.
So far so good. Now all I need to do is leaf through all Trish’s recipe books and find instructions for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze.
OK. I didn’t find a single recipe for seared foie gras with an apricot glaze. I found apricot and raspberry flan, turkey with chestnut and apricot stuffing, and almond pithivier with apricot filling and Prosecco sabayon.
I stare at the page blindly. I have just turned down what may be my only opportunity to start over. I’m a lawyer. That’s what I am. What else am I going to do? What’s happened to me?
Oh, God. Why is smoke coming out of the oven?
By seven o’clock I’m still cooking.
At least I think that’s what I’m doing. Both ovens are roaring with heat. Pots are bubbling on the hob. The electric whisk is whirring busily. I’ve burned my right hand twice taking things out of the oven. Eight recipe books are open around the kitchen, one drenched with spilled oil and another with egg yolk. I’m puce in the face, sweating hard, and trying every so often to run my hand under cold water.
I’ve been going for three hours. And I haven’t yet made anything that could actually be eaten. So far I’ve discarded a collapsed chocolate soufflé, two pans of burned onions, and a saucepan of congealed apricots that made me feel sick just to look at them.
I can’t work out what’s going wrong. I haven’t got time to work out what’s going wrong. There’s no scope for analysis. Every time there’s a disaster I just dump it and start again, quickly thawing food from the freezer, changing tack, trying to cobble something together.
The Geigers meanwhile are drinking sherry in the drawing room. They think everything is going splendidly. Trish tried to come into the kitchen about half an hour ago, but I managed to head her off.
In less than an hour she and Eddie are going to be sitting down at the table expecting a gourmet meal. Shaking out their napkins with anticipation, pouring out their mineral water and wine.
A kind of frenzied hysteria has come over me. I know I cannot do this, but somehow I can’t give up either. I keep thinking a miracle will happen. I’ll pull it all together. I’ll manage it somehow—
Oh, God, the gravy’s bubbling over.
I shove the oven door shut, grab a spoon, and start stirring it. It looks like revolting lumpy brown water. Frantically I start searching in the cupboards for something to chuck in. Flour. Cornstarch. Something like that. This’ll do. I grab a small pot and shake in vigorous amounts of the white powder, then wipe the sweat off my brow. OK. What now?
Suddenly I remember the egg whites, still whisking up in their bowl. I grab the recipe book, running my finger down the page. I changed the dessert course to pavlova after I chanced upon the line in a recipe book: Meringues are so easy to make.
