Saturday night, three of my friends were coming over for dinner and a DVD session. On the menu, cheese soufflé and "its" green salad, and lemon meringue pie.
Yes, all of this does, in fact, go well together, shut up. And that's not the point of my impending tirade, stop judging.
Soufflé and meringue. What to these two dishes have in common, apart from an apparent difficulty that is in fact, sheer myth? Egg whites, beaten if not into submission, at least into almost-solidness, that's what. I'm not completely down with the lingo, but you get the meaning, I'm sure.
With everybody expected around 8pm, I started on the egg whites at 7-ish. And wasn't that the exact time that my electric whisk chose to die on me? Wasn't that the exact time that my neighbours chose to be out or without an electric whisk of their own? Wasn't it? Yes. Yes class, of course it was.
It didn't even go gracefully, with a flash, a charred wall and a plug ripped out of the socket by the sheer force of the... something-something. Oh no. It just kind of spluttered to its demise like it was it that had been smoking all these years, and those egg whites were the one marathon that it should never have undertaken.
I did think of calling Pizza Hut to the rescue. And then, something that if I didn't know better I'd call pride - and I know it wasn't, 'cause that feeling is as alien to me as mercy is to the All Blacks - took over, and I decided to go it unplugged. So I whisked. I whisked like a mad person. I whisked like there was no tomorrow.
And, let me tell you. For my arms, there wasn't.