Steve, being the wonderful person he is, came home from work last night and offered to cook dinner for me, as I was incapacitated and miserable in bed after leaving work at 3pm.
Steve headed purposefully into the kitchen to make Alphabites and sausages while I stayed in bed wheezing like Darth Vader. Approximately 6 minutes later sounds of swearing, frustration and sizzling floated into the bedroom, and realising exactly what was happening to the dinner, I got up and dashed to the cooker.
Steve was standing over a frying pan containing some sausages, and a large pile of potato fragments. “What happened to the Alphabites?” I said, trying to mask my horror. Steve just had that wide-eyed look on his face that men get when they’re not sure why something didn’t work.
On closer examination, not only were the Alphabites distintegrating into alpha-mash, but in a scientific anomaly, they were simultaneously charred black and still frozen. The letters D and A could just be seen cowering at the edge of the pan.
I removed the pan from the heat and looked at the gas flame, which was on the same setting I use to boil potatoes.
I mentioned to Steve that “Low” on the cooker bears no resemblence to a low heat, and how you have to look at the flame to get the correct temperature. Steve looked skeptical. Being a typical man in this respect, he only uses two settings to cook, hot and pyrotechnic, because the masculine part of him that loves fire doesn’t quite believe that a little tiny flame will do anything at all.
And it must be love, because somehow I still think that’s cute.