A Tale from the Kitchen, Confessions of a Failure

You'll get all the world until you're looking for it.  That's what my mother used to say.  There is more than a grain of mother's wisdom in it.  For instance, I am looking for a simple utensil jar for my kitchen counter.  I thought it would only be a matter of popping into the Home section of any department store and hey presto, I'd get one.  Not so easy, as it turns out.  I'd like to get a jar in a lime green colour but I would settle for anything that fits in with my cooking utensils which are now in need of a home.  I got a set of these fabulous things for Christmas: scoops, fish slices, gorgeous turners of all kinds.  It's a pleasure to use them.  But living in rented accommodation I don't have the perfect kitchen to go with them.  I am not allowed to drill holes anywhere so I hit on the idea of getting suction rings which you affix to the wall and which you can hang things on.  I already have a few of these for tea-towels, oven gloves and stuff like that, and they work wonderfully.  However, my slotted fish slices et al are that bit too heavy and after a struggle to keep on the wall they collapse more or less ungracefully onto the kitchen counter.  Thus my quest for a nice utensil jar began.  I would settle for a nice jug, I think, if I found just the right one.  I'm not in any hurry which is probably part of the problem because I have too much time to scrutinize everything and decide on nothing.  Still, it's fun to be looking.
It puts me in mind of when I first moved to Germany and tried my hand at cooking and other handicrafts which seemed like second nature to my contemporaries.  I'd spent my young years in flats, not doing any cooking if I could help it and feeding myself junk food to ward off hunger pains.  I was smoking as well in those days and couldn't have led a more unhealthy lifestyle if I'd studied a manual on the subject.  One of my flatmates used to prepare liver casserole for me which I hated but felt obliged to eat in order to fight off incipient anaemia. Only when I had children did I start to try my hand at cooking - with limited success.  Whereas German women are a dab hand at producing mouth watering cakes, anything I took out of the oven looked as if the mice were at it.  To my eternal shame I could never donate anything to school bazaars or church festivals.
It took me a long while to accept the fact that I am not domesticated but I can whip up a tasty meal which might have some unusual elements (if that's the right word), depending on what's in the fridge.  But all this doesn't alter the fact that I am still searching for a utensil jar which appeals to me and is "just right" for my kitchen counter.  I'm not looking for all the world just that one utensil jar to gladden my heart.

Rainy Days and Sundays

There is nothing I love more than to curl up with the newspapers and a pot of tea on a Sunday afternoon. When I lived abroad it was the one thing I really missed.  The various columnists with their take on the week's news and the behind-the-scenes reports from journalists in the world's hotspots and fleshpots have always held a fascination for me.  
My real weakness, though, is the glossy lifestyle magazines. I drool over houses with divine gardens and conservatories and kitchens fitted out like operating theatres. That little bijou apartment in Bayswater with a view of the park. Small but luxurious. London on your doorstep. Sigh, sigh.  Or - if you prefer the country - the ivy-covered cottage by the sea down in Co. Mayo with the cute little love-seat in the garden. Might need a little makeover but a bargain at the price.
When I've picked the house of my dreams - usually with reservations such as "not too keen on the second guest bedroom, needs refurbishing" - I turn my attention to the cookery section. This is just as much of an adventure, especially for someone like me who has three main dishes at her fingertips:  pasta with tomato and basil sauce served with a side salad; chicken breast in lemon and herbs with roast potatoes and a veg. if you're lucky; and beef curry with rice and a side salad, the curry sauce comes out of a glass jar and has only seen Madras at the factory.  Looking over the exotic dishes in the lifestyle magazine I realize how lacking in imagination my cooking really is - yes, I know you've spotted that yourselves. I tear out the recipes even though I know I am never going to use them.  The crostini with salsa verde just isn't going to taste right no matter what care I take to prepare it. I won't go into my attempts at that steak recipe using Tequila.  And if I do manage to bake one of those oh-so-easy-to-make cakes, it might taste okay but it always looks as if the mice were at it. So all I have is a drawer-full of glossy recipes, most of which I'm too scared to try out. Beans on toast, anyone?
And then there are the wines. I adore those descriptions, they get my taste buds working overtime:  silky, nutty, fruity with an edge of blackcurrant. How's that again - "an edge of blackcurrant"?  I could probably get the same effect at half the price using a dash of Ribena mixed with Australian shiraz.  But it does all sound too, too romantic, doesn't it? Makes me want to pop down the off licence and look as if I know what I'm doing when I pick out a wine.
When I've extracted the last bit of pleasure from the glossies, I feel geared up for the week again.  Who knows what gems - houses, recipes or wines - are awaiting me in next Sunday's offerings?