Late last night (or early this morning), I got to
thinking obsessing about explosions after a routine immersion blending went awry.
A geyser of gingery-spicy-garlicky wet masala intended for a molten beef vindaloo launched into the air before gravity shot it down the front of my skirt just beyond apron's reach…and all over the wall…and across my once pristine white counter. Whomever thought installing an unsealed white countertop in a kitchen should be flogged publicly. It's probably the same people who have kids, get white carpet, then find themselves rearranging the furniture every 3 months to hide what little Jimmy did.
As I was saying. My once pristine white countertop is now tie dyed with a few large streaks of yellow from the hefty spoonful of turmeric contained in said masala giving it the lived-in look I didn't desire but the universe felt I needed. Or maybe I just had the blender on too high. But that's neither here nor there.
I make mistakes just like everybody else. I am human until the government proves otherwise.
Yes, there are still streaks on the wall from a violent shaking of lemon vinaigrette that in hindsight needed a gentler touch.
Yes, there may have been a pepper grinder incident involving hundreds of flying rogue peppercorns that took years to clean up. Those damn things are like glitter!
Yes, every time I simmer a marinara, the kitchen becomes a murder scene of red splatters, drips and splotches. The number of times I've had rice, milk or potatoes boil over are too numerous to count.
Flour and I have a pretty sordid history. Grout has been stained by blood oranges. Meat has been catapulted into the air on more than one occasion.
And from time to time, the Significant Other finds cake batter on my neck. But perhaps that's evidence of a different crime.
Does this make me a bad cook?
Does this make me a clutz?
Who knows what mess I'll make next, all I know is that there WILL be more. It could be today or a month from now, but doggoneit more kitchen mayhem will be wreaked as long as I'm still kicking. And I will enjoy every last disaster as if it were my last.
Isn't a life with messes more fun? Isn't that why we made mud pies and enjoyed finger painting as kids?
There is never a reason to cry (or sigh) over spilled milk. Schmears, dents and stains are the war wounds of a kitchen used to its fullest potential.
That is something I will never regret.
What was your greatest kitchen mess?