J always tells this story about how when we were (much) younger and living in Portugal, and one night I began to cook spag bol. He usually breaks into a fit of laughter at this stage and struggles to tell the next part of the story, at which point I usually try to interject and get my side in, unsuccessfully.
Anyway, so I was cooking spag bol. J walks in and sees me putting the sauce in the pan first, before the meat. He blasts me for “doing it all wrong” and continues to show me how it’s done. To this day I still think “no biggie”, afterall there are worse things I could have done…like mix shards glass in his dinner maybe?!
Let’s back it up a few years…J’s family are from the country and so he was a border in the city during high school. Once he finished, he moved straight into a house with a few flat mates in Sydney. Me? I had lived at home before we travelled and lived overseas, it wasn’t often that I cooked for myself and in my mind I was going through the motions quite well for a beginner.
I have not lived this small error down for years now, no matter how many culinary masterpieces I whip out of thin air, no matter how many Sunday breakfasts I deliver in bed, no matter how many Chilli Con Carnes I slow cook for hours, roasted baked dinners, pumpkin soups, pumpkin pies, shepherds pies, flourless chocolate brownies, low fat banana breads, this story still manages to rear its ugly head and the hand of my ‘best mate’.
Why is it that whenever you do something marvelous, whether at work or at home, the glory seems to have an expiry date…but the minute you get the order that the spag bol recipe goes in wrong, it lingers like a bad smell forever?