I sit here wondering yet again what to have for dinner. Cooking for one is a ball ache, everything comes in huge packs these days. Family size this, extra large that. In bricks and mortar it’s easy to forget about the water, gas and electricity you’re using for every day tasks. The utilities are almost invisible, a phenomenon that we pay for monthly or weekly but a mystery source that enables you to Hoover, cook, clean, wash, do your hair. When you buy your gas in a bottle, fill your water cans from a tap and harvest your electricity from the power of the sun you become acutely aware of how much you’re using and what remains. “Think I’ll have sausage mash and beans for dinner tonight” I thought 3 hours ago.
Then a surge of panic overcame me - that’s two pots, 2 utensils, a plate, and a forknknife to wash up. That’s a lot of water. And 20 minutes of gas burning just to boil 2 potatoes. Sausages make a mess too, spitting grease all over the van. And then of course more gas to boil the kettle to wash up with. A quick check of the water level reveals around 5 litres remaining. “Bollocks. I knew I needed to do something today!” That’s to cook, wash up, coffee, quick wash and teeth, teeth again in the morning with another coffee and quick wash (not with the coffee) and if there’s only 5 litres left that must mean the waste is full…
With a heavy sigh I sit back down and have a think. I want to stand at the fridge, door wide open whilst I gaze inside hoping for some inspiration but the van has been in the shade all day and battery power is a bit low. If I open the fridge I’ll let all the chilled air out and the compressor will kick in to chill it down, using up more battery power than necessary. “Fuck it, I’ll watch tv for a bit.” Oh wait… The whole electricity thing again…
I try and remember what I saw when I last opened the fridge: Pack of ham. Pack of bacon from the farm. Sausages. They’re definitely in there as that’s what I was going to have. Cheese. Definitely cheese. There’s always cheese. I love cheese! Eggs. Butter. I could have a butter sandwich! I wonder if you’d butter the bread first before applying more butter to make it a sandwich. If you don’t then it’s just bread and butter, no? I digress. Milk. Garlic. Always garlic in there. A plastic lemon shaped pot of jif lemon juice. Not sure where that even came from! I think that’s a carrot. A weird courgette but I’m pretty sure that started out as a cucumber as I hate courgettes. What else… Surely that’s not a tomato…
This happens almost every night. I usually settle for a pack of crisps and a cheese sandwich. Sometimes I’ll even toast the sandwich as a special treat! They’re not as delicious as they look though, are they, toasted sandwiches. The cheese never melts properly and if it does the bread is too done. Then when you bite into it cheese squirts out like an inmates wet dream and scalds your chin and usually manages to leave a greasy mark on your clean T-shirt. They’re even worse with ham in them. Ham makes it fucking impossible to eat! Just turns your toasty into a slippery slidey scaldy crispy face altering weapon. Forget putting beans into it…
In the end and after much deliberation, I opted for tiny diced fried potatoes, sausages with chopped bacon from the farm and eggs. Scrambled. Still used 20 minutes of gas. Still boiled the kettle to wash up. Still had loads of washing up. Still stood with the fridge door open for 3 days, staring vacantly, wishing a sirloin would appear from the mist, offering itself like a beautiful blonde at the sacrificial alter. But the decision was made based on the fact that I don’t own a potato masher device gadget. Must add that to the list of shit I’ll never need but will likely do so once, the day before a new moon.
I must go now as I think the eggs may have been a little fruity (undated and from a roadside honesty box) and may very well vacate my arse at a rate of velocity unknown to mankind except for the speed that I return to the aforementioned honesty box with the eggs returned. From my portapotti…
Did you know that grapes turn into a fruity fireball in the microwave? Don’t tell your kids…
Add comment
Comments