Carol’s Column

Chef in the making – and what a pain

In the first year of the third century 2000 the New Man has emerged from his chrysalis.

To be more specific, the New Man in this particular household has by now emerged.

"Like a butterfly," I said to my good friend Betty.

"Like a moth," she replied.

It's all in the eye of the beholder, I suppose one could say.

The point is, after all these years of marriage - during which time I have prepared and cooked at least two and a half million meals including snacks – my spouse decided to attend cookery lessons.

Each Thursday, from 6 until 11pm, he departs. Actually, he and his utensils depart. To be more specific, he, his knife, five plastic containers, two small cups (for desserts) and a nifty plastic apron depart.

Accompanied, naturally, by a bottle of good red merlot.

The bottle of wine is to aid the creativity of the learners.

"Learners?" I inquired.

"Learner chefs," he explained.

That first week - I should mention he has only had four lessons - I discovered there were seven other learner chefs equally divided in gender.

The first week was certainly revelationary.

"Do you know how to take the pips out of a chili?" he asked on his return.

"Of course I know how to take the pips out of a chili," I replied.

"So," he said, "how do you take the pips out of a chili?"

I won't bore you with fine detail but it will suffice to say that for over 30 years I have been removing pips from a chili incorrectly.

It is like sexing a kitten, or riding a bicycle - easy if you know how.

You cut open the chili at the stalk end (the fat end), then gently squeeze it until the pips pop out.

Simple.

For those who don't know how to sex a kitten.

You do not flip the kitten on its back, open its legs and try to determine from the shape of its orifice, whether it is male or female (males have two round opening, females a round and an elongated opening).

Upside-down, wriggling kittens are impossible to sex.

No, stand the kitten before you, just lift its tail and all is instantly revealed.

Simple, just like de-pipping a chili when you know how.

After the first lesson, my husband returned laden with a delicious caramelised onion and goats cheese tart, focaccia, roasted vegetables, chili, avocado and feta pasta and tiramisu.

I mention this menu in detail because it was achieved by a person whose cuisinary prowess consisted of scrambling an egg.

As a boiler, he was never successful (bouncing boiled eggs are an acquired taste) and even frying had its problems such as broken egg yolks.

From this, the New Man has evolved into a chef of reckoning.

For instance, it would never occur to me to make my own pasta but the New Man rubs, rolls and leaves strings of the stuff hanging all over the house.

For his birthday, he wants a pasta machine, he revealed.

He bakes a mean spinach and feta pie, cooks Thai chicken curry, makes spring rolls, whips up a lemon cheesecake to die for and is becoming a real pain.

He bought a knife I am not allowed to use, berates me for not clearing up after each step when cooking and insists on using freshly squeezed lemons instead of juice in a bottle.

Worse, this weekend, right in the middle of the definitive Western Province and Sharks rugby match, he wanted to switch TV programmes at 6pm to watch two plump chefs strutting their stuff.

I mean, can you imagine?

Men!

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