Last night, I decided to be a nice girlfriend and make Henry supper. I envisioned a cosy evening of red pepper and chorizo soup, a fresh farmhouse loaf, and a pot overflowing with girlfriend points. Needless to say, I was feeling pretty smug as I unpacked all my organic produce and got to work. I was a domestic goddess of the first degree!
As per usual, calamity ensued. A pesky chilli ruined my perfectly laid plan.
|*Image via WeHeartIt*|
It's a pretty fundamental rule of cooking, really; after chopping up a chilli, wash your hands. Wash them good. Unfortunately, in my little bubble of sweating onions whilst shimmying along to Days Are Gone (Haim forever!), this little tip of hygiene and self-preservation escaped me. And then I apparently touched my face.
Fast forward twenty minutes, and I was going nuts, eyes streaming, blasting my face with the shower, while a bright red moustache-shaped irritation erupted on my upper lip. Not the cool chef I had envisioned, I was a flailing mess whose head felt close to spontaneous combustion.
There was only one thing for it.
I had to smother my face in mango and vanilla yoghurt.
Which actually really helped. Until I
licked took it off. So then I had to reapply.
Henry, naturally, spent the whole evening laughing at me. My culinary delight had been reduced to a scene involving yoghurt on my eyelashes, and inevitably, in my eyes, and after my impromptu face mask had taken effect (around half an hour) a bright red, Movember worthy 'tache on my face.
And supper wasn't served until nearly eleven.
I think I'll wait a while before my next kitchen foray.