MELLIPOP AND THE CAKE

Ok, so I baked a cake today. No biggie, right?

Here is the finished result.

This is a cake. I swear on my mother’s life that it is. At least, that is what the good folks at Green’s meant it to be…(Please, no lawsuits: I, Mellipop, assume full responsibility for this inexcusable travesty of the culinary arts, which had nothing at all to do with my wholesale abuse of your marvellous modern-lifestyle convenience product)

A FUCKING PACKET CAKE.

Add a couple of eggs, a bit of milk, some butter and bake for 40 minutes. I took the fucker out at 41 minutes, having been absorbed in the onerous task of cleaning out all my kitchen cupboards, whilst grooving out with my new iPod shuffle. (Please no lawsuits: I, Mellipop, assume full responsibility for this inexcusable travesty of the culinary arts, which had nothing at all to do with my absentminded distraction due to your marvellous portable music product)

I fucked it up. The bottom and the sides were all burnt. So I had to cut all the sides and the bottom of the cake off, and subsequently iced what was supposed to be the bottom of the cake – though the bottom of the cake had now been sliced off due to the unanticipated burning of the cake. Comprende? Hence the “interesting” texture on what is now the “top”of the cake…. So it looks like one of those greasy lumps of plastic that doctors show you to illustrate what a kilogram of fat actually looks like. Tasty.

People scoff with incredulity when I tell them what a bad cook I am. Like I’m trying on a bit of false modesty for size and am really a whizz in the kitchen, effortlessly whipping up a wanky French three-course something-or-other whilst also juggling the stern demands of making my own puff pastry from scratch for a tasty dessert. Homemade crossaints, anyone?

Au contraire, mon cheri.

Baked beans on toast I can do. Eggs on toast I cannot. OK, so I can do a mean scrambled egg, (something even I can’t fuck up) but forget about the fried or the poached variety. What almost-30 year old can’t even successfully fry a freakin’ egg for godssakes?

Mellipop.

I’m trying, I really am. I just don’t have “the knack”. Nor do I enjoy cooking at all. If I have a couple of glasses of wine, some groovy tunes playing and a half full pack of fags I can at least endure the process, but without guaranteeing the end result, which is inevitably not worth the time or ingredients massacred during the process.

Here I am blogging while I should be cooking. Tonight’s delectable dish is going to be a satay chicken stir-fry, thanks to a half full bottle of Masterfood’s Satay Sauce and some hokkien noodles. Plus, I have a brown onion, a red capsicum and some frozen beans to throw into the mix. I’m already anticipating the disaster that lies ahead. Sure, I have a whole pantry full of abitrary ingredients like soy sauce, cornflour, coconut milk, peanut butter and baked beans, for example, but I don’t have the werewithal to actually combine said ingredients to create a palatable meal. Anton can do this effortlessly. I think I can honestly say that I hate him for that,

Fuck him. He has to eat my food tonight…

POSTSCRIPT:

Ok, so having returned from walking the dogs, Anton has just come into my room with a barely concealed look of bewilderment and hilarity on his face. The bugger has the hide to ask me what happened to the cake and asked me why it looks like a "crater". Ungracious bastard.... I stay home and slave over a hot stove for him today and this is the thanks I get???

Ha ha, bring on the stir-fry motherfuckers!