There Goes the Omelette

They say that some motor skills you acquire for life such as cycling and swimming. Even after years of substandard public transportation with charmingly uncouth fellow passengers, give a man a handy bicycle and chances are he'd still be able to get from point A to point B. Albeit with an unbalanced fall or two.

That certainly doesn't seem to be the case when it comes to cooking.

Since I came back early this evening - skipping my lunch to finish some of my work - I found myself subsequently racked by hunger pangs and decided to satisfy my cravings with an early dinner. Nigella Lawson might advocate cooking for the soul but these days I only reach for the frying pan when I'm near dying of starvation. After all, there's always McD and Pizza on delivery ( though I'm dying to know when we're gonna have Chinese takeaway! ).

You see... I actually hate scrubbing up a messy, oily wok. But these days I don't even have that excuse with a maid in attendance all too willing to help out with the dishwashing. Although she volunteered for the cooking task no doubt dreading the clean-up later ( though she had her arms full with laundry ), I told her to let me try out my experiments. Not sure if it was a trick of the light but I think she might have smirked.

Been a while though since I've even gone near a functional kitchen - closest I get these days is the well-stocked pantry at work full of instant 3-in-1 coffee sachets, ready-made sandwiches and easily prepared instant noodles. Even a lobotomized patient would find it easy to prepare a meal worthy of a starving teenager.


Maybe I should just call delivery
Almost nerve-wracking stepping into that long abandoned sanctum and I took up the knife and ingredients for an omelette with some trepidation, thinking of the various unfortunate victims of culinary mishaps that had come through the emergency department. I should have been far more afraid. Embarassingly enough, my amateurish kitchen misadventures seemed almost worthy of a five minute skit by the Three Stooges. Not only did it take me almost five minutes just to slice up the onions ( tearing all the while ), I almost sliced off my toe during the process.

Yeah. Just imagine how far the wayward blade travelled.

And I could have sworn I used to break eggs perfectly without despoiling the omelette mix with crumbly eggshells. Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

Since I've never been all that good with instruction ( so there go the handy cookbooks from the domestic goddesses ), I usually cook largely by instinct - praying really hard that the mind-boggling mish-mash I'd cobbled together comes out tasting slightly better than garbage. Not forgetting more than a little dependence on long-buried communal memories of my mother slaving away at the stove.

Paul : Hmm... I could have sworn that she put a pinch of this.... maybe a shovel of that...

( Pause )

Paul : OMG. Was that freaking vinegar?

Evidently I lived to tell the tale with all my digits intact. The omelette didn't even taste half bad. I'd certainly have given my sister-in-law a run for her money. Certainly good practice for the day I finally hang up my stethoscope to take up a mop and broom as a househusband - when Charming Calvin finally starts making the big bucks.

Tofu. Eggs. Rice. Soon I'll be able to serve up an entire meal :P