Death by cooking

‘You made a cake!’ My friend said, shocked. ‘I am extremely domesticated,’ I told her smugly. ‘Please enjoy this freshly made cocktail while I check on my steak and ale pie. Yes, I also made a pie. And potatoes. No need to feel inferior.’ Yesterday I had a little Sunday lunch. (It was not little in the slightest, it’s just a lot of you weren’t invited so I’m trying to pretend it was).

Things started smoothly. I woke up at 10am because I was so hungover I fell out of bed. (I was reaching for some water, and just slipped out). I wearily put on some running kit and went outside. I returned, slightly sweatier, a respectable 8 minutes later. I washed my hands and began to make my pastry. My Father wandered into the kitchen. ‘Is that suet?’ He asked. ‘That’s dreadful stuff. Oh, we’re having it for lunch? Lovely.’ I moved onto my cake. This is when the trouble started. I marched into my Father’s study. ‘There’s no magimix,’ I said. ‘My entire lunch is in jeopardy.’ My Father wearily followed me down to the kitchen. ‘Here!’ He said proudly. The Tardis was heaved onto a kitchen counter. ‘Um, Dad?’ I began hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure this still works.’ I left my Father jabbing furiously at buttons and examining fuses, and looked for other options. Which I found.

In my delight, I sliced my thumb across the blade. Which for a second, was perfectly fine. Until I looked down, and saw the blood, and realised I probably needed to go to hospital.

Or get a plaster. Something drastic, anyway. I called my Mother. ‘I have cut my finger,’ I whimpered down the phone to her. ‘And I hate the magimix, and I’m coming over to use yours.’ ‘I’m not at home, darling,’ My Mother replied. I am affronted. ‘You are a terrible Mother,’ I told her crossly. ‘I’m probably bleeding to death.’ The rest of my lunch preparations took on a somber hue, as I struggled to finish my impossibly delicious three courses whilst conserving enough blood to survive. I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I didn’t tell my guests. But hopefully this will gently remind them that what turned out to be a lovely Sunday lunch could very easily have been my last supper. And also that I should probably have my own cooking show.