Suffice to say if you turn up on my doorstep unexpected, I'm not going to be the person who magically whips up a spectacular Devonshire tea while you're not looking. You're more likely to be offered a half-eaten packet of TimTams or some Colby cheese on a cracker (with tomato if I'm feeling adventurous).
Not surprisingly my lovely husband does most of the cooking. I chop the veges. I'm good at chopping. And I do the dishes. It's a system that works well ... Until I'm rostered to work night shifts, as I have been recently. Ten years ago when my husband and I first met, we both worked nights at a call centre. I survived mostly on a diet of 90-second microwave rice, teeny cans of tuna and takeaways. Our office was on Cambridge Terrace in Wellington, just around the corner from Courtenay Place, so the dinner options were endless. Malaysian, Thai and Japanese were all there, alongside the usual Macca's, BK and KFC.
There was a great bakery that opened at 6am if you were finishing up a shift and Sweet Mother's Kitchen serving coffee, curly fries and amazing key lime pie till the early hours. Then there was J&Ms.
J&Ms was an institution at the call centre, serving soggy fries, deep-fried chicken and Chinese noodles from hot plates. My husband liked to play tricks on the newbies in the office. A newbie, let's call him Rex, asks my husband what J&Ms is like, sussing out dinner options in the area. Husband points to another colleague, Aileen, a bolshie, rough-round-the-edges but with a heart of gold grandmother who'd been a night team leader for about 30 years, saying "See Aileen? She has J&Ms every night."
Rex says "Oh? It must be okay then."
"She's 27," husband deadpans as the office around him explodes into silent fits of laughter.
But alas, there is no J&Ms in the regions and my office is now a good 20-minute walk from the CBD. So dinner options include KFC or Burger King. The cafes nearby all shut at 4pm and while there is a supermarket (it's yellow and fond of stickmen), I've avoided it since some years ago I was punched by a stranger's child as I walked past their trolley.
But fast food every night gets expensive very quickly and the KFC hangover isn't worth it. So cooking in the work kitchen is my only option, despite my limited abilities. And no, I'm not talking about the slow-baked lamb shanks a colleague made over winter (popped them in the oven when she arrived in the morning, cooked to perfection by lunchtime).
Nay, my skills do not lend themselves to that. But, as Plato wrote "necessity is the mother of invention". Enter the humble sandwich press.
About a month ago I had the revelation that bacon could be cooked on the sandwich press. Zap it in the microwave first, crisp it up on the press. It was a game-changer.
My salads and chopped veges took on a whole new twist and no doubt my colleagues appreciated the protein keeping my hunger at bay. Last night I had minute steaks, mushrooms and green capsicum, all cooked on the press. Next up will be wee maple syrup marinated pork steaks. I'm also going to try crisping up sliced, par-boiled potato. And fried banana with custard for dessert. Next thing you know, I'll be trying to wrangle an entire warthog carcass on there, rotisserie style!
It's a whole new me. I'm excited to cook dinner and try new things. And it sure beats two-day-old leftovers. Move over fancy induction stovetop, there's a new hot plate in town.
