In a domestic jam
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
Marvellous things, cooks. As you might have gathered, I do not count
myself among them. The reason is partly related to a traumatic and
somewhat sticky strawberry jam crisis in my youth. (Chef's note:
when pouring hot, lumpy strawberry jam into jars, do not do so over plush
carpet, bare feet, or pussycats. All three will remember the moment
in vivid detail.)
The other reason I do not view myself among the egg separatists of
the world is that cooking often comes attached to dinner parties.
Dinner parties have always filled me with terror. This stems from
seeing The Mary Tyler Moore Show episode where “Mare” doesn't cook
enough food at her dinner party. Her boss helps himself to too much,
necessitating her embarrassed, panicked, hissed plea that he return half.
He does so, rather obviously.
With this thought in mind, my first dinner party, - held at my then
Sydney flat - was for one person only; sort of a trial run. The menu
included spaghetti bolognaise, a dish so basic I was certain even I,
with cook's L-plate on, could construct it.
All was going well until I discovered I had no tomato paste. The
shops were shut and my bolognaise sauce was now about as thin and tasty as
french onion soup without the french onion. It was enough to cause
any good chef to sigh and any bad chef to scream: “No, no, why me? Oh
God, it's all over.'' (Guess which I did.)
After I got back up off the floor, I improvised. Out came the tomato
sauce bottle and globs were liberally dolloped in.
The consistency righted itself instantly, even if the color
disturbingly changed to that of an angry traffic light. To
compensate, I threw in another clove of garlic, remembering only at the last
second that it's a good idea to peel those suckers first. This
completed, I patted myself on the back.
My guest, a colleague, arrived shortly afterwards and I watched as
she bit into the first mouthful of slightly overdone spag and somewhat
over-red bol. She smiled graciously but her eyes had narrowed
imperceptibly, her nostrils aflare. Curious. Was it that good?
Nervously I gathered up a morsel and bit in.
A thousand sensations assailed my tastebuds but only one was
overriding. Sugar. How had I never once noticed the sweetness in
tomato sauce?
I leapfrogged the couch and barrelled up to my water cooler. But clearly
a food critic, it collapsed in an 8-litre whoosh of finest
springwater. It was easily the most expensive floor cleaning I'd ever done.
I squelched back to my guest - who wisely chose not to comment on my
feet being now both naked and wet - and spent the rest of that
dinner party trying to apologise.
My friend, in turn, as was her guestly duty, spent the entire time
lying through her now very orange teeth. “No, no, it's okay, it was
nice,” she smiled thinly. “Thankyou, so much, for a ... lovely
evening. Must be off now.”
The skid marks she left on my carpet are probably still there.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 04 February
1997.