The onions make me cry

Rejoice; the government are going to make cooking lessons compulsory:



My sister (whom I love to bits) could burn water.  This is despite living an almost uninterrupted  childhood with my mother who makes cakes, pies and could cook for England.  I, however, cook daily, from scratch, a vast array of things of all types – and I have a full time job and I work for myself in the time I’m not working for The Man or emailing far off muses and dreaming of a better life or hand-in-hand walks on a beach.  It may be that she knows how to cook but chooses not to but, to be honest, I think it’s the former rather than the latter.  Cooking is not *that* hard.  In fact it’s a basic human instinct: food gathering and preparation.  Is it perhaps that we have evolved society to such an extent now that we are de-evolving skills like telling the difference between crap food sources and nutritious yummy bits?

My sister is not alone.  More and more people seem to say: “oh I can’t cook to save my life”.  My Lady boss is totally unable to cook anything at all.  My male boss (her husband) chooses not to cook and therefore their three children and themselves eat a constant diet of take-away food full of saturated fat, MSG, salt and twenty kinds of chemical you would not dab onto a grazed knee.  No – really – that is their diet – daily.

I’m not claiming to be a hero (ok, a bit) but I try to buy my veg from the local farmer’s market, preferably organic but at the very least au natural.  Not shrink-wrapped.  Not pre-packed.  Not “in syrup”.  I’m not a total purist, life is for living, but you know, veg *does* taste better when it’s not travelled3000 miles and sat in plastic for two weeks before being cook-chilled.  I know it happens, our most common type of customer is in the food preparation industry – I’m off to a pig farm today up North.  I dare you to go to one of these factories and look at the production line, as I do, and see 10,000 quiches a week being made on a conveyor belt with a man-robot-slave-drone dropping handfuls of red-peppers according to a traffic-light system and then squirting the quiche mixture from a hose attached to a massive silo of the quiche mix (pre-made and brought in by one of the those shiny tanker lorries that you thought was bringing petrol when you drove behind it on the motorway and kept your distance but then noticed it said “non-hazardous food product” and sighed with relief knowing you would not burn to toasty brown in a flash frying crash).

Not that I’m trying to put you off.  No.  Quiche is nice.  Real men eat quiche.  Bloggers eat quiche.

Anyhoo, I’m off to get ready for the visit to the pig farm.  I’m swapping over their hand-scanner today to ensure uninterrupted surveillance of  the worker-drones.  Now, where’s my wellies?


13 thoughts on “The onions make me cry

  1. Quiche is excellent. Especially when accompanied by chips and baked beans.

    Re cooking: I love it (doing it). But it’s difficult because my wife comes in to the kitchen and interferes with my military-esque organisation. It’s difficult to conduct manoeuvres with civilians getting in the way.

  2. I have always thought of cooking as a process of following directions and artistic license. It becomes tricky when you’d like to substitute an ingredient (or don’t have the right thing on hand), and put the wrong thing in.

    Here’s an example. In high school, I was attempting Chicken Cordon Bleu, and since we had no white wine available, my mom suggested using SANGRIA. Can you say “purple chicken”?

    I thought you could. 🙂

    You can stop laughing now.

  3. I’m guessing Chicken Cordon Bleu is what we would call “Coq au Vin”. Lol. In which case it’s usually vin blanc instead of vin rouge. 🙂 Oh, and Sangria – kaphooey – that’s what you make when your wine is a bit cheap and you’ve got lots of citrus fruit spare in the summer.

    Oh, and Brennig – definitely agree that cooking is not a team sport. I have been known to point sabatiers and garlic presses at people who enter my kitchen expecting to stir something or add seasoning when I’ve not invited them to (which is never).

    Fletch, you’re never too hairy to enjoy the word quiche…

    Sammy, you’re off to Spain woman, learn to cook – quick – or they’ll send you back!

  4. “Coq au Vin”, you are right. I stand corrected, although I can dig up a Cordon Bleu recipe with white wine, if you like. 🙂

    Sangria is definitely NOT a cooking wine, by any stretch of the imagination.

    hehe… I kind of like the beer milkshake idea.

  5. I have to admit to being ‘heathen’ in this matter! I can cook but I detest cooking so I don’t. No excuses other than life is too short to spend so much time doing something one hates…ok, maybe that life will be shorter as a result but hey, it will have been happier! ;o)

  6. Dear sweet lord of all that is good, pure and wholesome on this green and pleasant earth.

    You’ve rendered quiche – one of the foods I considered bland and safe – into something akin to giblets in a bun. But deep down, I always knew quiche was going to be an unmitigated bastard to us all one day. It has that look about it. Like the jelly in pork pies. We all know that one will come back to bite us. (Maybe even literally, who the hell knows).

    By the way, I once saw something called Runny Bacon, in a jar, for sale in a local outlet of *ldi.
    It was striated in a number of colours.

    And while we’re on the subject of bacon, near here is the Yorkshire-“famous” Malton Bacon Factory, which has been rebranded in a way that fools nobody. I don’t want to think of their full range of products. Ever.

  7. It is true, I am the beast of different perspectives – the envoy of alternative nastiness. Quiche, once lovely, is revealed to be a gloopy poo bucket of calorific shiitieness. The jelly in pork pies – little baby cow’s feet boiled down into savoury goodness.

    Runny Bacon – that sounds like it needs throwing away my friend before it gives you runny bum in return for its consumption. Striated or otherwise, bacon needs to be mostly solid – and bi-coloured; red and white. Or burnt-up-crispy-brown and yellowy white.

    Rebranding never works. Snickers. Marathon. Do I need to go on?

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