"One cup red or green seedless grapes, three cups shredded
chicken..."
"OK, got it." Phone wedged between shoulder
and ear–hole, I scribbled down the ingredients Becky
was giving me — while frantically spraying Febreze to
disguise the stench of dead fish.
"...cooked," Becky
added.
"What?" I knitted my much furrowed brow.
"three cups shredded... cooked... chicken." She spelled
it out, slowly, as if talking to an incompetent. I might
have taken umbrage, but for the fact that my domestic
Goddess gene wasn't so much deficient, as it died, probably
at birth. A slave in the kitchen I was not. Slut in the
bedroom I could do. Or would quite like to. Somehow,
though, I doubted the new man in my life would want to make
mad passionate love to the girl who'd just killed off his
mother.
"Honestly, Lisa..." Becky sighed. "It has to be
cooked before you shred it. You can't shred raw chicken,
can you?"
She was taking the pee now. "Obviously," I
dripped, indignant, though there was a good possibility I
might have tried.
"And make sure it's a happy chicken."
"Ri–ght." I paused to ponder. "Cooked and
shredded, I should think it'll be highly amused."
"Oh,
ha–di–ha." Becky didn't sound impressed. "I
meant, an organic chicken, plucked and without giblets.
Wash it under cold water, then place the whole chicken in a
big pot, cover it with water, and bring it to boil over a
high heat."
"By which time it will be positively
ecstatic."
Silence.
"Ahem. High heat, got you. Go
on."
"Make sure it doesn't boil over," Becky continued,
after an audible humph. "Once it's boiling, you can turn
down the heat. Let the bird cook for at least one hour and
then check if it comes off the bone easily. If not, turn
off the heat and leave it in the pot until it does.
Depending on the size of the bird, this might take a bit
longer."
"Becky, slow down!" I scrawled frenziedly and
tried to keep up.
"Right, got it. I think. Next?"
Becky emitted another despairing sigh. "Order a
takeaway."
"Sorry?"
"Never mind." She sighed — again,
pointedly. "Repeat back what I've just said."
"Hold on."
I turned to kick the back door closed before I got
frostbite, then grabbed up the saucepan containing the
culinary catastrophe I might have poisoned new man Adam and
his mum with — and tipped it in the dog dish.
Then
padded back across the kitchen and fell over the dog.
"Ooh, God! Three cups shredded cooked... absolutely
delighted ...chicken!"
I snapped, straightening up from
the work surface, which mercifully broke my fall before I
parted company with my teeth. "Good boy, Rambo," I cooed,
more sweetly. "Din dins, hon."
My midget Jack Russell
looked at me, looked at the dish — wherein floated a
monkfish head, sniffed it, curled a lip, I would swear,
then beat a hasty retreat to the hall.
"What else?" I
asked after the next ingredient, while heaving out a sigh
of my own, then trying hard not to breathe back in. The
Bouillabaisse — traditional Provençal fish stew (Easy Fish
recipe book now in trash) — I'd decided to serve for the
brunch Adam had invited himself and his mother to, smelled
horribly pungent while cooking. Burned, it could strip the
lining from your lungs. I shudder to think what it would do
to your digestive tract.
"Patience, lots of... on my
part," Becky went on wearily, "one cup thinly sliced
celery, half a cup thinly sliced green onions, half a cup
chopped, salted roasted pistachios..."
"Pistachios?!
Where am I supposed to get..."
"Kitchen cupboard, right
hand side. At least, that's where they were at Christmas."
"Oh, right." I nodded and wondered whether I should also
do an inventory of my kitchen cupboards... sometime.
"Next..." Becky went on efficiently: "...a quarter cup
of fresh chopped mint leaves. And, yes, you have got some,"
she assured me. "You bought it when you got the parsley and
thyme for the Bouillabaisse. You'll also need ... two cups
cooked couscous. If you like, you can use Bulgur or rice
instead."
"Is that it?" I asked, feeling overwhelmed by
the task ahead as well as odious smells.
"For the salad,
yes. For the Curry Chutney Dressing, you'll need..."
Tescos, I thought wanly.