About a week ago, I came to a startling realization. I should not be in the kitchen. Ever. Or at least not with fire involved – as in, not with fire that occurs in the kitchen in the form of a stovetop.
Look, I’m not a natural cook. If I do happen to serve something to my family that isn’t burned or otherwise mutilated, it’s a fluke. Trust me. Once I’ve tried a recipe and it turns out decently, I will not be able to recreate it. I don’t know how I do that. But I think it might be my special talent. You know, like some people can sing or do math? I can make things once and then never cook them again.
The weird thing is I love kitchen catalogs. To me, the Sur La Table catalog is like kitchen porn. And don’t even start me on the Williams-Sonoma catalog or Napa Style – those are my loves that cannot be named. They are filled with gadgets and gizmos, and I’m like the Little Mermaid, I want to collect them all.
Anyway, I found a tagine in a catalog. And I instantly fell in lust. It matched the colors of my kitchen – which we all know is the perfect reason to buy a food cooking thingy mabob. For those who don’t know what a tagine is, it looks just like a plant saucer with a cone on top. According to the catalog, it “can be used to cook and serve traditional North African tagines, as well as couscous and rice dishes.”
Now, I should have known this wasn’t a good idea based solely on the fact that I have no idea what North African food is, except for rice pilaf from a Rice-a-Roni box – something I always burn (please, it’s rice that has to be fried first, of course I burn it). But if that didn’t convince me, I should have known the tagine was cursed from the very day it arrived on my doorstep, broken in a gazillion pieces.
But I really should have known it was a bad idea when I set the stove on fire with it.
Twice.
Yeah. Anyway, the first time I did it, I followed all of the instructions. I put veggies and chicken in, added olive oil and cooked the heck out of it. After an hour, I removed the cone, and turned over the chicken. And that’s when the oil spilled over the sides of the saucer and a three-foot tall flame sprouted out of my tagine.
Of course, I was calm, cool and collected while watching the flame come this close to my range hood (and my eyebrows). Oh, wait. That’s a lie. What I really did was run around the kitchen island, slapping my eyebrows and screaming “OMIGOD! Dinner is on fire! And possibly my eyebrows!” Now, in anyone else’s home, this would cause all the family members to come running. Not in my house. I hate to say it, but this is a pretty common thing for me to yell.
But after the flames burnt themselves out, dinner was pretty tasty. A bit overcooked (some might say blackened, but I told Harry to stop calling it that), but still pretty moist, thanks to the power of the cone thingy. However, I did vow to never, ever use the tagine again.
Until last week, when I saw the tagine sitting in the cupboard and I thought I’d try to make the chicken again. And what do you know? For the first time ever, I recreated a recipe. Right down to the three-foot tall flame that erupted when I turned the chicken.
After that, I put the tagine in the deep, dark recesses of the cabinet where I keep all the food cooking thingy mabobs I’m too afraid to use. Look, I don’t want to push my luck. For all I know, the third time is a charm with that thing and the entire kitchen will go up in flames the next time I use it. Plus? I have to preserve my eyebrows. They’re the only ones I have.
Besides, I found this Columbian clay casserole dish in a catalog. I mean, I don’t know what I could make in it, but what harm could it do? You know, other than the whole kitchen-catching-fire thing.
