Cooking

There are things we do in our own company that should remain private, and for legitimate reasons, outsiders just wouldn’t understand. From time to time (at least weekly) a reckless confidence fueled by alcohol leads me to surmise that my partner will most likely enjoy witnessing one of these acts of depravity first hand. She’d be fuckin’ stupid not to love me for doing this, right?

My lovely wife made some really extraordinary fried egg rolls for dinner last night. Those not devoured spent the night in the fridge. Eighteen hours later whilst seeking an appetizer to supplement my Saturday lunchtime beer I retrieved the cold egg rolls from the fridge. We own no microwave. The oven takes at least 10 minutes to heat up. The broiler sets off the smoke alarms and wakes the sleeping children. Crisis.

Solution. Fill a dirty mug with boiling water. Place two egg rolls into a plastic bag and sink the bag into the mug full of water. The egg rolls are smarter than thought and use their buoyancy to try and escape the mug so a knife, covered in hours old butter, is placed over the rim of the mug thus preventing unwarranted bobbing.

Razor sharp intuition and Q=mcΔt tells me that after approximately three minutes sufficient energy transfer will have taken place so that the egg rolls can be removed from the cooking apparatus and appreciated. The equations prove to be spot on, as per fuckin' usual, and the egg rolls are subsequently eaten.

That’s my life. That's cooking, divorce style.