The Undomestic Goddess
Page 38
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So far so good. What next? Form the stiff meringue mixture into a large circle on your baking parchment.
I peer at my bowl. Stiff meringue mixture? Mine’s liquid.
It has to be right, I tell myself feverishly. It has to be. I followed the instructions. Maybe it’s thicker than it looks. Maybe once I start pouring it out, it’ll stiffen up by some weird culinary law of physics.
Slowly I start to pour it onto the tray. It doesn’t stiffen up. It spreads in a white oozing lake and starts dripping off the tray onto the floor.
Something tells me this is not going to make white chocolate pavlova for eight.
A splodge lands on my foot and I give a frustrated cry, near tears. Why didn’t it work? I followed the sodding recipe and everything. A pent-up rage is rising inside me: rage at myself, at my defective crappy egg whites, at cookery books, at cooks, at food … and most of all at whoever wrote that meringues were so easy to make.
“They’re not!” I hear myself yelling. “They’re bloody not!” I hurl the book across the kitchen, where it smashes against the kitchen door.
“What the hell—” a male voice exclaims in surprise.
The door flies open and Nathaniel is standing there, a rucksack hefted over his shoulder; he looks like he’s on his way home. “Is everything OK?”
“It’s fine,” I say, rattled. “Everything’s fine. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I make a dismissive motion with my hand, but he doesn’t move.
“I heard you were cooking a gourmet dinner tonight,” he says slowly, surveying the mess.
“Yes. That’s right. I’m just in the … most complex stage of the … um …” I glance down at the hob and give an involuntary scream. “Fuck! The gravy!”
I don’t know what’s happened. Brown bubbles are expanding out of my gravy saucepan, all over the cooker, and down the sides on the floor. It looks like the porringer in the story of the magic pot that wouldn’t stop making porridge.
“Get it off the heat, for God’s sake!” exclaims Nathaniel, throwing his rucksack aside. He snatches up the pan and moves it to the counter. “What on earth is in that?”
“Nothing!” I say. “Just the usual ingredients …”
Nathaniel has noticed the little pot on the counter. He grabs it and takes a pinch between his fingers. “Baking soda? You put baking soda in gravy? Is that what they taught you at—” He breaks off and sniffs the air. “Hang on. Is something burning?”
I watch helplessly as he opens the bottom oven, grabs an oven glove with a practiced air, and hauls out a baking tray covered in what look like tiny black bullets.
Oh, no. My chickpeas.
“What are these supposed to be?” he says incredulously. “Rabbit droppings?”
“They’re chickpeas,” I retort. My cheeks are flaming but I lift my chin, trying to regain some kind of dignity. “I drizzled them in olive oil and put them in the oven so they could … melt.”
Nathaniel stares at me. “Melt?”
“Soften,” I amend hurriedly.
Nathaniel puts down the tray and folds his arms. “Do you know anything about cooking?”
Before I can answer, there’s the most almighty BANG from the microwave.
“Oh, my God!” I shriek in terror. “Oh, my God! What was that?” Nathaniel is peering through the glass door.
“What the hell was in there?” he demands. “Something’s exploded.”
My mind races frantically. What on earth did I put in the microwave? It’s all a blur.
“The eggs!” I suddenly remember. “I was hard-boiling the eggs for the canapés.”
“In a microwave?” he expostulates.
“To save time!” I practically yell back. “I was being efficient!”
Nathaniel yanks the plug of the microwave from the wall socket and turns round to face me, his face working with disbelief. “You know bugger all about cooking! You’re not a housekeeper. I don’t know what the hell you’re up to—”
“I’m not up to anything!” I reply, in shock.
“The Geigers are good people.” He faces me square on. “I won’t have them exploited.”
Oh, God. What does he think? That I’m some kind of confidence trickster?
“Look … please.” I rub my sweaty face. “I’m not trying to rip anyone off. OK, I can’t cook. But I ended up here because of … a misunderstanding.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?”
I sink down onto a chair and massage my aching lower back. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was. “I was running away from … something. I needed a place to stay for the night. I stopped here for some water and directions to a hotel and the Geigers assumed I was a housekeeper. And then this morning I felt terrible. I thought I’d do the job for the morning. But I’m not planning to stay. And I won’t take any money from them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I peer at my bowl. Stiff meringue mixture? Mine’s liquid.
It has to be right, I tell myself feverishly. It has to be. I followed the instructions. Maybe it’s thicker than it looks. Maybe once I start pouring it out, it’ll stiffen up by some weird culinary law of physics.
Slowly I start to pour it onto the tray. It doesn’t stiffen up. It spreads in a white oozing lake and starts dripping off the tray onto the floor.
Something tells me this is not going to make white chocolate pavlova for eight.
A splodge lands on my foot and I give a frustrated cry, near tears. Why didn’t it work? I followed the sodding recipe and everything. A pent-up rage is rising inside me: rage at myself, at my defective crappy egg whites, at cookery books, at cooks, at food … and most of all at whoever wrote that meringues were so easy to make.
“They’re not!” I hear myself yelling. “They’re bloody not!” I hurl the book across the kitchen, where it smashes against the kitchen door.
“What the hell—” a male voice exclaims in surprise.
The door flies open and Nathaniel is standing there, a rucksack hefted over his shoulder; he looks like he’s on his way home. “Is everything OK?”
“It’s fine,” I say, rattled. “Everything’s fine. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I make a dismissive motion with my hand, but he doesn’t move.
“I heard you were cooking a gourmet dinner tonight,” he says slowly, surveying the mess.
“Yes. That’s right. I’m just in the … most complex stage of the … um …” I glance down at the hob and give an involuntary scream. “Fuck! The gravy!”
I don’t know what’s happened. Brown bubbles are expanding out of my gravy saucepan, all over the cooker, and down the sides on the floor. It looks like the porringer in the story of the magic pot that wouldn’t stop making porridge.
“Get it off the heat, for God’s sake!” exclaims Nathaniel, throwing his rucksack aside. He snatches up the pan and moves it to the counter. “What on earth is in that?”
“Nothing!” I say. “Just the usual ingredients …”
Nathaniel has noticed the little pot on the counter. He grabs it and takes a pinch between his fingers. “Baking soda? You put baking soda in gravy? Is that what they taught you at—” He breaks off and sniffs the air. “Hang on. Is something burning?”
I watch helplessly as he opens the bottom oven, grabs an oven glove with a practiced air, and hauls out a baking tray covered in what look like tiny black bullets.
Oh, no. My chickpeas.
“What are these supposed to be?” he says incredulously. “Rabbit droppings?”
“They’re chickpeas,” I retort. My cheeks are flaming but I lift my chin, trying to regain some kind of dignity. “I drizzled them in olive oil and put them in the oven so they could … melt.”
Nathaniel stares at me. “Melt?”
“Soften,” I amend hurriedly.
Nathaniel puts down the tray and folds his arms. “Do you know anything about cooking?”
Before I can answer, there’s the most almighty BANG from the microwave.
“Oh, my God!” I shriek in terror. “Oh, my God! What was that?” Nathaniel is peering through the glass door.
“What the hell was in there?” he demands. “Something’s exploded.”
My mind races frantically. What on earth did I put in the microwave? It’s all a blur.
“The eggs!” I suddenly remember. “I was hard-boiling the eggs for the canapés.”
“In a microwave?” he expostulates.
“To save time!” I practically yell back. “I was being efficient!”
Nathaniel yanks the plug of the microwave from the wall socket and turns round to face me, his face working with disbelief. “You know bugger all about cooking! You’re not a housekeeper. I don’t know what the hell you’re up to—”
“I’m not up to anything!” I reply, in shock.
“The Geigers are good people.” He faces me square on. “I won’t have them exploited.”
Oh, God. What does he think? That I’m some kind of confidence trickster?
“Look … please.” I rub my sweaty face. “I’m not trying to rip anyone off. OK, I can’t cook. But I ended up here because of … a misunderstanding.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?”
I sink down onto a chair and massage my aching lower back. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was. “I was running away from … something. I needed a place to stay for the night. I stopped here for some water and directions to a hotel and the Geigers assumed I was a housekeeper. And then this morning I felt terrible. I thought I’d do the job for the morning. But I’m not planning to stay. And I won’t take any money from them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
