Frying Pan Funeral

I need to procure a new frying pan. The non stick has finally given up the ghost on our most current one and now begin weeks of sniffing around the kitchenware sections of various shops in an attempt to find a new one which promises to neither stick nor warp with use.


So many years, so many broken promises. I always start the relationship with a new Frying pan in the giddy excitement of a new romance. After many days or weeks of searching I have finally discovered a pan which promises to last for ages & which will not warp or prove unworthy of my commitment.
I marvel at how awesome the non stick is as I return to cooking all the meals that I hitherto was forced to avoid in the old pan.


But then, over the weeks and months that follow, my affection slowly cools and the excitement of a new relationship is replaced by the mundane grind of normal life. The pan; rather than being the focus of exciting new recipes, becomes taken for granted and has to churn out endless omelettes, fry-ups and scotch pancakes.


After the twelve to eighteen month mark I start to notice visible signs of aging and deterioration which I immediately go into denial about. 'no no, it's a great pan. I took ages choosing it. It will surely go on and on'. But in my heart of hearts I know that this is the beginning of the end and I am already starting to cast furtive glances at other frying pans when we are out in town. Embarrassingly having to slam my laptop shut when my wife comes into the room for fear that she will see my internet history and realise that I have once again been looking at pictures of younger frying pans.


Eventually the pan is incapable of managing even the most rudimentary meals shredding & destroying rashers of bacon entrusted to it's care. After the second or third meal is transformed into a shoddy, shapeless mess; I come to my senses and declare that the relationship isn't working and that I need to start looking around for another frying pan that can meet my needs. And the adventure begins again.


This would all be well and good were it not for the fact that I appear to have great difficulty in actually throwing the old frying pans away. Perhaps it is due to all of the emotional investment that I have put into finding it. Or to the memory of all those great meals that it faithfully produced over the years. But when push comes to shove, and I am left holding it over the dark open depths of the wheelie bin; I find that (like Frodo Baggins) I just cannot bring myself to let go.


So it goes into the shed with my other dead frying pans and I tell myself that I will be able to find some use for it in the future (perhaps on a camping trip where I will be cooking over an open fire or as part of  a hastily constructed suit of armour in the event of zombie apocalypse).
This cycle has been repeating every 12 to 20 months so that I now have a not inconsiderable, stack of frying pans. All of which I feel some level of emotional attachment to. This must be how hoarders feel about all of their crap. Perhaps this is how it starts? Too much of an emotional relationship with cold unfeeling objects. Just not feeling able to let go. I have previously written of my tendency to hang onto dreadlocks, teeth and even beard clippings. This is a personality bent that I need to stamp out hard before I become a full time hoarder of bent screws or something!


On the other hand, I do quite like my pile of frying pans. My wife discovered it the other day (on an unauthorised trip into my shed. How dare she!). She demanded that I throw some away which I duely did. She does not have any difficulty in parting with old crap. There is clearly no emotional component there for her, whether it is getting rid of an old and faithful car or a previously loved sweater, she turns her back and moves on without ever giving it a second thought.


What I would really like to do if I am honest, is to continue to collect frying pans (I have given up on ever finding one that lives up to it's claims of a lifetime of stick free cooking). I would like to collect a big pile of them which could then be disseminated to the mourners at my funeral.
'Hello sir. Attending the Gasson ceremony today are we? Please take this Sainsbury's finest range 20 inch deep pan non warp model. Hello madam. You too? Please take this Tefal 18 inch red spot non stick deluxe'.
 Then people could throw them onto my coffin whilst they bid me farewell at the graveside. It would be a bit like the ancient pharaohs who got buried with all of their old crap. Maybe pyramids were just the afterlife equivalent of 'the big yellow storage box company' when all is said and done. Imagine the clatter and clang at the grave side as the accumulated lifetimes worth of frying pans are reverentially chucked on top of the coffin together before being covered in earth. Or maybe I could get them all melted together 'game of thrones' style into a custom made, non stick coffin. A Teflon coated Bier in which to travel to the afterlife.


In any case, the hunt is on for an exciting new frying pan and there is a place in my kitchenware mausoleum for the current incumbent. Hopefully my wife will stay out of the shed in from now on following my dire warnings about using the 'wrong sort of paint'.

Free Luxury Shampoo

I love an 'Air B&B'. Don't get me wrong, I've had my fair share of slightly dodgy ones over the years. We had one in Brazil which boasted and exposed electrical ring main and hot water that had been plumbed in the wrong way so that our first few showers were and exercise in ice cold and boiling hot torture. But I love the feeling that I'm schtupping the hotel system and most of all I love the free stuff that other people leave. There's usually the normal boring things in the kitchen. A half bag of granulated sugar, some questionable looking dried pasta and a cooking sauce that looks about ready to grow legs and dance out of the door. But root a little deeper and you can find some real gems. On our last holiday we had a truly stupendous air B& B at the top of a big tenement overlooking the city sprawl. There was this electronic door key which you had to put the correct code in to turn (which made me feel like James Bond). There was an extra bedroom just for the kids with toys in situ for them to play with. There was a massive TV with incomprehensible remote controls & free wifi.
But best of all there was a bath. A huge gleaming tub surrounded by modern pristine tiles with piping hot water and a lockable door.
This was heaven. Our family have managed without a bath for the past five years in our house as the previous occupant decided to rip it out and replace it with a modern shower cubicle which they never correctly plumbed in (not even back to front). So the shower had no hot water connected and when we did get it going in the end, we discovered that the shower tray had not been sealed so that water pissed down the kitchen walls and short circuited the boiler every time anyone spend more than three minutes washing themselves.
 Three shower units and a lot of swearing later we have sorted the problem but I haven't enjoyed soaking my bones in a bath for literally years.
Back when I first moved out of mum and dads house, up to Nottingham, I didn't own a washing machine. In order to economise and save effort, I used to bath with my dirty laundry. It made perfect sense to me as a 19 year old hippy. Stick a load of fabric detergent in the tub. If it will clean clothes then it will clean me right?
Then just tip the contents of your laundry bin into the swirling waters and step in to join it.
It was quite a nice sensation. I would stir the clothing and socks around as the water slowly grew browner and occasionally I would be able to identify specific items as they rose gently through the murk to greet me like old friends.
Then finally I gave in and purchased a second hand washing machine. We didn't have a TV at the time and I vividly remember sitting enthralled and watching the whole of the first wash from start to finish on my kitchen floor. Magical.


Anyway, I haven't been able to enjoy a good soak in many a long year so I couldn't wait to get into the holiday bath. Unfortunately I had no bubble bath but a quick search around the Air B&B turned up a blue white and gold plastic bottle bearing the legend 'Luxury Shampoo'. I stood on tiptoe to retrieve it from the high shelf in the utility closet and pumped a generous amount into the hot steaming water gushing into the bath. It was a sort of gloopy brown gold colour and had a smell which (though I couldn't directly identify it) spoke of glossy hair and healthy exercise.
A huge mound of frothy bubbles obediently formed and I slipped in to enjoy my first bath experience in the holiday flat. Bliss.
I so enjoyed the bath that I started completely eschewing showers in order to have more time in the tub. By the end of the week I had almost completely used up the Luxury Shampoo but like a good husband I offered it to my wife so that she too could experience Luxury (I like to say 'luxury' as if I am a tipsy Noel Coward...really stretch the word out 'Luck sure ey').
My wife looked at me with an expression of concerned amusement. 'You've been using this in your bath?', 'Yes darling it's lovely. Really bubbly and look; It says it's a Luxury shampoo. You can't get better than that and it didn't even cost us a penny. Someone left it here in the flat after their holiday'.


My wife refused to use the shampoo in her bath. 'Look closer at the label Ian' she insisted. 'It's luxury dog shampoo'. I immediately subjected the label to more careful scrutiny (having previously just glanced at it). To my embarrassment she was indeed correct. It said LUXURY dog SHAMPOO and there was even a little light grey pictogram of a dog on the front (which in my defence was very hard to see on the top shelf of the utility cupboard).
This at least explained the odd aroma and the fact that it had left me with very good hair.


I decided not to inform the children that they had been bathing in a doggy bath all week. It will serve them right for flooding the floor every night. Next time I will definitely purchase my own bubble bath from a reputable dealer (or return to using laundry detergent!).

Caffeine Survivalist

I need coffee. In fact our whole family runs better when coffee is introduced to the mix. My wife and I are so paranoid about the apocalyptic results of the coffee running out that we always have piles of the stuff in the pantry as well as a jar of what we refer to as ‘the emergency coffee’ made up of  run off from the previous bags.  The alternative is too hideous to consider.

Now let me make my position clear. I am not talking about the disgusting freeze dried swill that the peasant classes claim as coffee. I am talking about delicious ground beans run through a caffitierre or coffee machine and poured gently into a beautiful cup which steams tantalisingly as it fills the room with an aroma of brown affluence and calm . I only usually drink two cups a day as my kidneys threatened to explode a few years back and consultants informed me that coffee was instrumental in the formation of kidney stones & best avoided.  

Personally, I am not willing to live in a world where coffee is denied to me and so I have compromised and have just two cups a day. One around 6am and one around 5pm. But the coffee has to be GOOD. I will not tolerate substandard rubbish and so will always refuse offers of coffee when at someone elses house. I favour Taylors ‘Rich Italian’ for preference and have a little song that I sing to myself when I am preparing it (to the tune of ‘she’s an easy lover’ by Phill Collins)

‘He’s a Rich Italian, he makes his coffee strong believe me,

Like a wild stallion, he’ll grind a coffee that will suit your needs…’

‘You know that he’s Italian, He’s a rich Italian, He wears a gold medallion, everyday. ..’  etc

 

Imagine the scene therefore. We are on a family holiday in Poland and our Air B& B (lovely as it is), has no caffitierre or coffee machine. None of the local shops appear to stock them either.  Suffice it to say that, after a couple of days without my morning caffeine fix I was clucking like a heroin addict who’s dealer has just been arrested.

‘I must have coffee’… the local shops were happy to sell any amount of ground beans but nowhere seemed to vend the means to transform them into the warm brown heavenly goodness that I required. In the end I became desperate enough to take matters into my own inept hands & decided to manufacture a ‘home made’ cafitierre out of one of my wife’s stockings, some rubber bands and a big jar that I discovered in one of the cupboards. I cut a hole in the lid of the jar using a knife and we were in business.

I am the Bear Grylls of coffee survival! The resulting brew machine totally destroyed my wife’s stocking and turned most of the kitchen into a damp, coffee grit ridden wasteland but it was worth it. Coffee, glorious coffee flowed from the DIY spout like the nectar of the gods.  Now this holiday can really get started and the kids can come out of hiding. The only draw back is that my wife is now left with one odd stocking. Perhaps I should plan a robbery so that I can make use of it. Waste not want not.