Cooking with gasbagPosted: December 9, 2011
Somewhere in Massachusetts, a cold shiver just ran up Tom Levenson’s back, for Megan McArdle has published her “Holiday Gift Guide 2011: Kitchen Edition“.
Now, I love cooking (my old English Fruit cake with propofol icing has won several awards) and I love gadgets (particularly the sort that are made by Germans out of latex and make the lights dim in three states when I turn them on), but McMegan’s list is truly terrifying.
Megan says that “Space is somewhat limited in our kitchen“, and given that she appears to own every piece of crap that has ever been flogged to the gullible and the taste-free, I’m not surprised. I have visions of her dessicated corpse being found some day, trapped between the piles of old copies of the New York Times that line the walls of her apartment, smothered beneath an avalanche of chicken-shaped spoon holders and fish spatulas, all liberally lubricated with rancid butter (salted and salt-free!) that has spilled out from her (now water-depleted) butter boats.
It’s hard to pick favourites from her list, but I’m particularly enamoured of the Salt Pig, which may be the ugliest piece of kitchenware I have ever seen:
At least it matches the colour of her salt.
Helpfully, Megan suggests several solutions to those global problems which bedevil us all, including the Kuhn Rikon Egg Separating Set because:
Separating eggs by hand is not hard, but it’s tedious…
and the Swivel Store Spice Rack because:
Like most people who like to cook, I am obsessed with finding a solution to The Spice Problem.
Thankfully, this last apparently flouts the laws of physics by holding all her spices:
happily (and neatly) over the microwave, where they’re paradoxically easy to get at, and safely out of the way.
If only Zeno had known about that he wouldn’t have had to do all that messing around with tortoises and arrows.
Megan even recommends not only a gravy separator, but also a warming gravy boat. Starving children in Eritrea can rest easy now, knowing that Megan’s guests will never be exposed to cold, fatty sauces.
She (of course) triples down on the fucking Thermomix, in its third mention in as many weeks. I’m pretty sure she’s angling for a freebie, so she can wedge herself between two of them and have them rhythmically whirl, whirl, whirl her towards orgasm.
The thing that stands out most of all for me, however, is this:
I’ll frequently make a pot of rice at night and melt some cheese on top, eat some for dinner, and the rest for breakfast.
Despite all Megan’s crapping on about her fantasy world of “shiny chocolate glazes” and custards and foams and perfect bechamel, buried in the middle of the article we get one solitary glimpse of the truth – sad, pathetic Megan, surrounded by her shelves and drawers and hills of tat and rubbish, shovelling cheese and rice into her face in a futile attempt to fill the aching void in her soul.