A jolly time was had by both of us, particularly me, in the kitchen.
Unwisely, my wife let me loose in the kitchen, after I volunteered to dig out of the freezer a chicken Dhansak that I’d cooked a week earlier, plus a naan bread that I’ve finally mastered baking.
“Yes, it can’t go wrong!” we both thought.
When she started eating my previously delicious Dhansak, she stuck her tongue out at me, eyes bulging and fanning her primary weapon. At last, I understood what she was indicating when she gasped, “It’s far too hot!”
It was not obvious at the time, but it had clearly matured in strength by being kept for a short period.
Guiltily, I carried on eating with my mouth burning.
“Never mind dear,” I said reassuringly. “I’ve also made you my infallible semolina pudding, sprinkled with vanilla essence and a topping of strawberry jam.”
I warmed and served it to her in a ramekin. She had a taster and growled at me, “It’s far too salty!” and slapped it down.
“Rubbish!” I cried. “there’s only sugar in it, not salt!”
I downed the first spoonful in one go, and suffered instantly by ingesting over a week’s intake of salt all at once. Rushing to the bathroom, I rinsed my mouth under the running tap, saying “Oh dearie me! How is this possible?” It was undoubtedly salt, but had she played a trick on me?
Then I picked up the plastic container that held the 26 grams of sugar I had used. We both inspected it and dipped a finger in, each of us taking a sample.
“You idiot!” she shouted, her face screwed up like a monkey’s bottom. “I remember you buying a huge bag of salt 5 years ago and storing it in there.”
Fortunately, she had to rush off herself and apply water treatment on her own acid tongue.
I don’t think I’ll ever be allowed to forget this minor oversight, but one thing’s for sure: I’ll never, ever again, forget to stick a label on anything, nor store it in the wrong place.
If I’m given the chance.