Tuesday, September 15, 2009

fear of frying

It was supposed to be a nice send-off for the Resident Offspring, making her favourite meal for her on her last night at home before we banished her to University.

"Butter chicken", she said. So butter chicken it would be. It was an easy enough meal for me to prepare, as I ran madly about in my usual fashion, trying to ensure that every last detail was anticipated and dealt with.

But perhaps there were still a few too many details left to fret over, as the pan with the oil in it can attest, sitting as it did on the hot element for far longer than it was accustomed to doing.
Enough time for that oil to get good and hot, angry hot for being ignored for so long. So that when I finally noticed the pan smoking on the element, I did what any time-deprived, list-obsessed person would do - I dumped the chicken pieces right into the overheated pan.

The resulting explosion, although painful, seemed to be dampened with a lengthy dose of cold running water, but when the welts started appearing on my forearm, I realised that this was going to leave a mark. Turns out is also left a psychologist scar, as I could sense people easing away from me in public when they noticed what appeared to be a nasty skin disease on my forearm. Contagious, no doubt.

Fast forward two weeks later, to the day. The Spousal Unit is preparing for a fishing trip with a buddy, a regular event at which he and said fishing buddy always eat exactly the same meals on exactly the same days of the trip. This, you must remember, is a man who likes to choose what he will order at a restaurant two weeks before going out. Seriously.

Except this time. For the first time in recorded history, the Spousal Unit has decided that the men folk would like something different on this fishing expedition. The meal of choice? Butter chicken.

You will be relieved to know that I survived making that butter chicken, but I do need a drink now.

What scares you in your kitchen?

17 comments:

justrun said...

Um, have you all never heard of the infamous Butter Chicken Curse?

Glad you're okay!

Remi said...

I once had a late night run in with a knife and a package of steakettes. It's always interesting driving a stick shift to the emerg when one of your hands is wrapped up in tea towels.

Captain Karen said...

Egads woman! I hope that heals. How sad that every time someone mentions those two fabulous words (butter...chicken...mmmmm), you'll have visions of bubbling oil and the smell of burning flesh. :(

Barbara Bruederlin said...

And all this time I thought that curse was only in effect if you opened the tomb of the Egyptian Butter Chicken Pharaoh, Justrun. My education is clearly lacking.

I can picture that scenario all too clearly, Remi, having once showed up at Emerg with bleeding hands wrapped in tea towels, and on crutches. I suspect they see loads of tea towels at Emerg.

Sadly, you are right, Karen. That fragrant dish has been pretty much tarnished for me. Fortunately there is still chocolate.

Allison said...

Eeek! That looks quite painful, I hope it is healing okay.

I'm terrified of taking things in and out of the stove, and doing anything on the BBQ. Not sure why, but just unnerves me. Nobody can be talking to me as I do such tasks (well I do avoid bbq at all costs, that's what my electric grill is for), I go into full concentration mode...trying to reach my zen state, you know.

Gail said...

Maybe you should take the drink before you make the butter chicken

glethbridge@eastlink.ca said...

hmmm, why did my GT name and avatar disappear?

Gifted Typist said...

eek can you delete that last one

Charlie said...

What scares me in the kitchen? Anything that is plugged in, and cooking oil that is too hot.

John Mutford said...

What scares you in your kitchen?

My wife.

Anonymous said...

Oh you poor thing, Barb!
Get out of that kitchen...don't you have a local restaurant that makes a great Butter Chicken?
Cutting bagels scares me. Also cutting hand lotion bottles to get at the last of the creme.
Berni

Sean Wraight said...

Cooking your own flesh really does go well beyond the call of duty dear Barbara... (Good God, that looks painful.) But sacrifice we must, particularly when the offspring are (is) involved.

In the interest of full disclosure: I did the same thing myself recently when I foolishly wondered whether that stove element was actually heating up.
(Just put the palm of your hand on it fool and see.) I had a handy target shape on my hand for ten days...

Hope you have plenty of aloe, because I have pretty much exhausted my supply...

s
a.k.a. The Barbecutioner

Barbara Bruederlin said...

It's only wise that such things require total concentration, Al. The consequences could be dire.
But does this mean that I can't practice my standup routine on you while you are removing a pizza from the oven?

You are evidently a multi-faceted woman, Gifted. Which means that next time I will get good and blotto before butter chickening.

I'm starting to understand the appeal behind the raw food diet, Charlie.

She is awfully fierce, John! And I mean that in the best possible way.

That begs the question, Berni, is it worth losing several fingers to get one more application of hand cream? And this question comes from someone who can squeeze a toothpaste tube to the size of a matchstick.
And yes, we really should have gone to the local butter chicken place.

Sean, Sean, Sean, you are doing absolutely nothing to dispel the myth that we are in fact each other's evil twin. Truth be told I once did exactly the same thing as you with the stove element, but mind you I was 5 years old at the time.
I do hope, though, that you avoided the rifle range for the next 10 days.

Wandering Coyote said...

Yeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhh...you have to be careful, Barbara! Seriously! Or wear long sleeves.

Barbara Bruederlin said...

I know, Wandering Coyote! Despite the +30C temperatures, I was seriously considering long sleeves for butter chicken 2.0.

leazwell said...

Hahaha, I don't feel so badly about my trash barrel incident now!
You silly zombie ;) xxx oooo

Barbara Bruederlin said...

I think we should make a pact never to play with fire together, Leazwell.