I AM LISTENING TO
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The Very Best of UB40. Ah, there are too many memories attached to England’s darling reggae ensemble to recall — some good, some not so good, but all funny. From my older brother referring to me as the ‘Rat In Mi Kitchen’ during my pre-teens (bad nicknames build character), to belting out ear-bleeding renditions of Kingston Town at the local tavern, the unnameable nostalgia associated with this hitlist is sublime. Is there any feeling as great as whining Red, Red Wine while drinking red wine? I’ll let UB the judge.
I AM WATCHING
Dave Chapelle’s comedy. Thanks to the deep pockets of Netflix, Chapelle has brought back the laugh-out-loud wave of funny pioneered by African American stand-up greats such as Chris Rock and Richard Pryor. What stuns me is the fact he took a 10-year hiatus from showbiz — sticking it to the man, essentially — and came back like he’d never left. It looked too easy. Most of his subject material could well be easy to lambast, but through charisma — truckloads of it — Chappelle manages to swing the masses right back round into the palm of his hand. That takes real, unadulterated talent.
I AM RELISHING
The prospect of a sport-filled winter again. A year off hasn’t done much for the waistline, nor the hairline — is what I’d say if I wasn’t 23. But still, my fingers and toes are itching for action. They’re willing to chance frostbite in the colder months, just to touch something spherical and leather-bound once more. I’ll take the shooting pain of the first cramp, the twang of a hamstring tear, and all other associated aches over another thumb-twiddling season of idle heater-huddling. Last year the world soiled its daks, and sport was bundled out with the rest of the dirty laundry. I can almost say with confidence, this won’t happen in 2021. My fingers are pre-emptively crossed.
I AM CONSIDERING
Entering the stock market. I’m only half joking, because the ludicrous 1500 per cent upshot in shares that American video game chain GameStop saw throughout January sure got people talking. Actually, it had them sounding deafening klaxons on the web. It was akin to when The Wolf of Wall Street was first released in cinemas, sending punters blindly Googling ‘blue chip stocks’ and ‘how to sell a pen’. And after last month, I was reeling with the rest of them. Why didn’t I capitalise on the cash printing scheme? Hell, I could sure use the coin. From a novice’s perspective, the stock market seems like gambling clothed in white-collar attire. But when stacked up against the pokies and virtual hounds, there is a certain allure.
A jarring shot of cognisance came a-tingling up the spine the other day, and it went something like this. I can’t cook.
It’s not that I can’t physically heat ingredients until edible — I often go overboard with the heating part. The tragedy is that I just can’t make the cursed things taste any good.
Call it lazy. Call it ignorance. Call it the youth of today contributing to the degradation of society. But I reckon this is a problem shared by plenty of my fellow millennials.
We, the mooching, presumptuous generation, were shunned. Denied the chance to learn how to create delicious wares from the confines of a kitchen. And now we’re paying for it.
See, this startling realisation came midway through Friday. I was poring over an edition of The New Yorker, trying to break down the verbose prose as farmer’s relief beat down heavily on Shepparton.
The stomach was rumbling, and I was in need of aid.
Rather than brave the conditions and procure something pre-made, delicious and probably awful for the gut, a flash of inspiration led me to discover an ancient relic discarded by time itself — a cookbook. Trying to decipher the hieroglyphics amid sepia-toned images of dreamy cuisine almost made my head explode.
So, I freestyled that meal instead. I thought, if I could just methodise the devil-may-care flair TV chefs seem to pull off with ease, maybe the flavour would come naturally. As I found out, this approach may work for the Delia Smiths and Nigella Lawsons of this world — but not for Liam Nash.
Long story short, I left the abomination in the sink and headed out to brave the conditions.
I procured something pre-made, delicious and definitely awful for the gut. The shame was real.
Is it my fault? Probably. Am I going to attempt to make a feeble argument against this? Definitely.
Though I'm far from the dictionary definition of a learned man, my upbringing surely should have presented me with the basic skillset to whip up three squares no probs.
Here are a few statistics from an article aptly titled ‘Millennials can’t cook for sh*t’ which support my argument: 56 per cent of millennials could identify a garlic press; only 47 per cent could braise a piece of meat; and 30 per cent wouldn’t know how to mince garlic.
I know how to do these things; I thought surely anyone with half a frontal lobe should also know. So where did we go so awfully wrong?
From memory, it began in the high school home economics classroom, a cage-match type setting where each was left to fend for themselves.
They say too many cooks spoil the broth, and in the case of 30 odd tweenagers raising hell in a volatile environment, it was true. Small hands, large knives — the situation alone was enough for me to steer clear of the stove until I absolutely had to approach it.
Fast forward a few years to when leaving the nest started to become a bit too real.
Sitting the family down for a meal prepared a-la-Liam gave me my first MasterChef moment. I can’t remember exactly what I pulled out of the oven, but this I know: it was bad.
The red flags were all around, but I simply refused to pick them up.
When someone is physically wincing when complimenting on your food, telling you it’s ‘really yum’, you should possibly place an inch of doubt in your culinary ability. I sure didn’t, and look where that has left me.
They should have flat out grabbed two bits of bread, wedged them into my ears and shouted ‘you’re an idiot sandwich’ (Gordon Ramsay fans out there will know). I’m sure it would have served me better.
Now, as a 23-year-old semi-functioning adult, there is plenty of ground left to be made up. Why stew over the wasted time spent in the drive-thru when I could be exercising some half-baked savoury whims?
It is well overdue, but you heard it here first: I am starting my experimental journey with spatula in hand.
Sorry Harry S. Truman, but I reckon I can stand the heat, and no, I won't get out of the kitchen.