The Undomestic Goddess
Page 57
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I walk over to the mirror and, for the first time since I’ve arrived here, examine my appearance with an honest, unflinching eye.
At once I regret it. Ignorance was better.
For a start, how can anyone look good in a blue nylon overall? I reach for a belt, fasten it around my middle, and hitch up my overall till the skirt is about three inches shorter, like we used to at school.
“Hi,” I say to my reflection, and casually toss back my hair. “Hi, Nathaniel. Hi, Nat.”
All I need now is lots of black eyeliner badly applied, and I’ll be back to my fourteen-year-old self in every single way.
I reach for my makeup bag and spend about ten minutes alternately applying and removing makeup, until I’ve got something that looks natural and subtle, yet defined. Or else like I’ve wasted ten minutes. I have no idea.
Now to the body language. I wrinkle up my forehead, trying to remember the rules from TV. If a woman is attracted to a man, her pupils will dilate. Also, she will unconsciously lean forward, laugh at his jokes, and expose her wrists and palms.
Experimentally I lean toward my reflection, holding out my hands as I do so.
I look like Jesus.
I try adding a flirty laugh. “Ha ha ha!” I exclaim aloud. “You just crack me up!”
Now I look like a cheerful Jesus.
I’m really not sure this is adding to my chances.
I head downstairs and draw back the curtains, letting in the bright morning sunshine. I’m picking up the post from the doormat when the doorbell rings. A guy in uniform, holding a clipboard, is standing outside, a van behind him in the drive. “Delivery from Professional Chef’s Equipment Direct,” he says. “Where shall I put the boxes?”
“Oh, right,” I say apprehensively. “In the kitchen, please. Thanks.”
Professional Chef’s Equipment. I guess that would be for me, the Professional Chef.
“What’s that van, Samantha?” calls Trish, tottering down the stairs in a dressing gown and high-heeled mules. “Is it flowers?”
“It’s the cookery equipment you ordered for me!” Somehow I summon up an enthusiastic front.
“Oh, good!” Trish is delighted. “Now you’ll be able to stun us with your cooking! It’s roasted sea bream with julienned vegetables tonight, isn’t it?”
“Er … yes!” I gulp. “I suppose it is.”
“Mind your backs!”
We both jump aside as two deliverymen troop past with boxes stacked high in their arms. I follow them into the kitchen and watch the growing pile in disbelief.
“Now, we bought you everything,” says Trish, as though reading my mind. “Go on! Open them! I’m sure you can’t wait!”
I fetch a knife and start unpacking the first box, while Trish slits the plastic on another. Out of the profusion of foam peanuts and bubble wrap, I lift a gleaming stainless-steel … something. What on earth is this? I glance quickly at the label on the side of the box. Savarin Mold.
“A … savarin mold!” I exclaim. “How marvelous. Just what I … wanted.”
“We only got eight of those,” says Trish, with concern. “Is that enough?”
“Er …” I look at it helplessly. “That should be plenty.”
“Now, the saucepans.” Trish has ripped open a box of shiny aluminum pans and holds out one to me expectantly. “We were told these were the very best quality. Would you agree? As a trained chef?”
“Let’s just have a look,” I say, trying to sound professional. I heft the saucepan appraisingly, then study the bottom and, for good measure, ping the surface with my fingernail.
“Yes, that’s a nice-quality pan,” I say at last. “You chose well.”
“Oh, good!” Trish beams, delving into another box. “And look at this!” She scatters foam to reveal a weird-shaped gadget with a wooden handle. “I’ve never even seen one of these! What is it, Samantha?”
Yikes. What’s that? It looks like a cross between a sieve, a grater, and a whisk. I glance quickly at the box for clues, but the label has been torn off.
“What is it?” says Trish again.
“This is used for a highly specialized cooking technique,” I say at last. “Highly specialized.”
“What do you do with it? Show me!” She thrusts the handle at me.
“Well.” I take the thing from her. “It’s a kind of … whisking … circular motion … keep the wrist light …” I beat the air briskly a few times. “Kind of like that. It’s difficult to show properly without the … um … truffles.”
At once I regret it. Ignorance was better.
For a start, how can anyone look good in a blue nylon overall? I reach for a belt, fasten it around my middle, and hitch up my overall till the skirt is about three inches shorter, like we used to at school.
“Hi,” I say to my reflection, and casually toss back my hair. “Hi, Nathaniel. Hi, Nat.”
All I need now is lots of black eyeliner badly applied, and I’ll be back to my fourteen-year-old self in every single way.
I reach for my makeup bag and spend about ten minutes alternately applying and removing makeup, until I’ve got something that looks natural and subtle, yet defined. Or else like I’ve wasted ten minutes. I have no idea.
Now to the body language. I wrinkle up my forehead, trying to remember the rules from TV. If a woman is attracted to a man, her pupils will dilate. Also, she will unconsciously lean forward, laugh at his jokes, and expose her wrists and palms.
Experimentally I lean toward my reflection, holding out my hands as I do so.
I look like Jesus.
I try adding a flirty laugh. “Ha ha ha!” I exclaim aloud. “You just crack me up!”
Now I look like a cheerful Jesus.
I’m really not sure this is adding to my chances.
I head downstairs and draw back the curtains, letting in the bright morning sunshine. I’m picking up the post from the doormat when the doorbell rings. A guy in uniform, holding a clipboard, is standing outside, a van behind him in the drive. “Delivery from Professional Chef’s Equipment Direct,” he says. “Where shall I put the boxes?”
“Oh, right,” I say apprehensively. “In the kitchen, please. Thanks.”
Professional Chef’s Equipment. I guess that would be for me, the Professional Chef.
“What’s that van, Samantha?” calls Trish, tottering down the stairs in a dressing gown and high-heeled mules. “Is it flowers?”
“It’s the cookery equipment you ordered for me!” Somehow I summon up an enthusiastic front.
“Oh, good!” Trish is delighted. “Now you’ll be able to stun us with your cooking! It’s roasted sea bream with julienned vegetables tonight, isn’t it?”
“Er … yes!” I gulp. “I suppose it is.”
“Mind your backs!”
We both jump aside as two deliverymen troop past with boxes stacked high in their arms. I follow them into the kitchen and watch the growing pile in disbelief.
“Now, we bought you everything,” says Trish, as though reading my mind. “Go on! Open them! I’m sure you can’t wait!”
I fetch a knife and start unpacking the first box, while Trish slits the plastic on another. Out of the profusion of foam peanuts and bubble wrap, I lift a gleaming stainless-steel … something. What on earth is this? I glance quickly at the label on the side of the box. Savarin Mold.
“A … savarin mold!” I exclaim. “How marvelous. Just what I … wanted.”
“We only got eight of those,” says Trish, with concern. “Is that enough?”
“Er …” I look at it helplessly. “That should be plenty.”
“Now, the saucepans.” Trish has ripped open a box of shiny aluminum pans and holds out one to me expectantly. “We were told these were the very best quality. Would you agree? As a trained chef?”
“Let’s just have a look,” I say, trying to sound professional. I heft the saucepan appraisingly, then study the bottom and, for good measure, ping the surface with my fingernail.
“Yes, that’s a nice-quality pan,” I say at last. “You chose well.”
“Oh, good!” Trish beams, delving into another box. “And look at this!” She scatters foam to reveal a weird-shaped gadget with a wooden handle. “I’ve never even seen one of these! What is it, Samantha?”
Yikes. What’s that? It looks like a cross between a sieve, a grater, and a whisk. I glance quickly at the box for clues, but the label has been torn off.
“What is it?” says Trish again.
“This is used for a highly specialized cooking technique,” I say at last. “Highly specialized.”
“What do you do with it? Show me!” She thrusts the handle at me.
“Well.” I take the thing from her. “It’s a kind of … whisking … circular motion … keep the wrist light …” I beat the air briskly a few times. “Kind of like that. It’s difficult to show properly without the … um … truffles.”
