Things happen when you move countries ...
In Istanbul, I discovered the gas cooker; an appliance previously unknown to me. New Zealand, or my South Island experience of New Zealand, had only exposed me to cooking with electricity.
The gas cooker sat unused during that first year in Istanbul ... I later discovered that even those who knew how to cook with gas couldn't make my oven work. This only confirmed to me that, had I attempted to use it my life would have ended in firey ball of gas which quite frankly, would have embarassed me.
Stuff happens to me so playing with gas seemed unwise.
My second year in Istanbul and I moved from Atakoy to Mecidiyekoy; into a much older apartment ('but built on solid rock and safe in an earthquake', the landlord assured me). There was a gas cooker and this time the stovetop was used, although the kitchen was so small that one risked burning one's bottom when working at the kitchen bench. My life was never dull.
Enter Gert ... Belgium also uses gas and suddenly I was almost ashamed of my avoidance of any cooking that required an oven ... almost, and only because a New Zealand woman can sometimes find herself defined by her cooking prowess if moving in the wrong circles.
Gert had a mother, a sister and ex-wife, all proficient cooks ... I realised that judgements could be passed.
I watched him use the gas oven and he was nearby the first time I lit it. Of course his gas oven isn't normal (are any of them?) and he bought a thermometer just after I burnt my first Made in the Northern Hemisphere batch of NZ Peach Muffins. You see, his oven lacks any kind of predictable heat ... one needs to monitor it constantly as it can shoot up to 240oC while on gasmark 2.
So tonight is the night of the roast lamb ... New Zealand roast lamb of course. Belgium has some nice specials on it and it's almost the same price as I recall it being back home. It's a lovely looking boneless roast (yes, kiwis think odd thoughts about roasts when away from home for too long) it will need nurturing and constant monitoring and so what happens ... the needle has fallen off the thermometer.
I didn't do anything...
I opened the oven, moved the oven rack down to allow for the height of the roasting dish and voila, I noticed the needle that tells me how hot or cold the oven is, lying inside on the bottom curve of the litte round thermometer clock.
Sigh ... it's all guesswork now and I've been out of the roast dinner crowd for so long that there's no 'instinct' for it left in me.
Let's see how it goes ...
2 comments:
You talk as tho at some point you once had "instinct" for cooking. You poor deluded thing. Admittedly you never sunk to the bacon & egg pie and oven cleaner trick, but people still took their lives in their hands at your table.
From one who knows... ;)
Hmmm, there are so few who could know of my mother's bacon & egg pie and oven cleaner, and only one who would cast asperations on my cooking, forgetting my spagetti bolognese, my roast lamb or hogget, hmmm silverside (or was that yours?) ummm and my peach muffins, chocolate cake, and sultana cake were fairly highly regarded, cheese rolls ... pumpkin soup.
Anyway, by way of a disclaimer, I did state that I never really moved in the wrong circles only that they were there ready to judge.
My Turkish rice was always good actually, and in every country I've lived in I've been queen of the toast (not every person could claim that).
I'm not sure their working you hard enough if you have time to comment :)
Oh and the roast was stunning, served with the best gravy I've ever made.
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