How on Earth-Hour???
29.3.09
by SHELL SHERREE
You know you have severe tardiness issues when you're late for Earth Hour...
... as we were.
Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that even in our own home ~ without going anywhere; without putting on makeup and getting tizzied up in the good clobber {and that's just hubby ~ let alone me}; without the flurry of last minute feeding of kitties and possums; without setting the timer on the video ~ we still couldn't manage to turn up on time.
It started off well enough but became Mission: Impossible when hubby decided to cook risotto for dinner.
Don't get me wrong. I love that he cooks for us. He's a fantastic cook. He can find his way around fresh herbs and spices without any help from a compass or Wii Cooking Mama.
But he's meticulous. Thorough. Each ingredient that requires chopping is slowly and methodically assessed and dissected so that each piece is the exact same size as the next. And if someone manufactured spirit-levels for chefs, we would own one.
Viewing hubby's prepped food would send an obsessive compulsive straight to Nirvana, though the trip home again could be delayed quite significantly by the sound of one hundred-times-washed hand clapping. {Don't worry, though. This überneatness is healthily counterbalanced by a disturbing habit of tossing eggshells and vegetable peels into the sink. We haven't had a sink with a garbage disposal since 1998.}
While Slow Food proponents around the globe might be rejoicing at the sound of all this, I, on the other hand, watched in horror as the clock ticked inexorably towards 8:30pm and a C minus in Social Conscience.
My inner screeching banchee grappled with my inner Dr Phil until I discovered that lying prostrate on the sofa with a bottle of gin for five minutes is an excellent home-made spirit level. Armed with a new resolve, I boldly offered myself as a sous-chef in an effort to get us over the Thin Green line. Though a little rusty, I used to hold an Honorary Speedy Gonzales diploma for my food prepping. I figure there is a time and a place for precision, like brain surgery and Swiss clocks {damn, is it already 8:20pm?}, not onions and mushrooms.
It was a valiant effort, but at 8:30pm, the arborio was still drowning in a sea of stock and only time could save it. Another sixteen point three minutes, to be precise. But after finally sitting down for dinner on the deck, we stayed in candlelight for a full hour anyway, then added a little more as the CFC-free equivalent of several Hail Marys. I don't know if it counts, but it eased the guilt somewhat.
I only hope we aren't 'outed' by Google satellite maps. I bet they didn't turn those off for Earth Hour. Damned modern technology.
17 comments
You know you have severe tardiness issues when you're late for Earth Hour...
... as we were.
Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that even in our own home ~ without going anywhere; without putting on makeup and getting tizzied up in the good clobber {and that's just hubby ~ let alone me}; without the flurry of last minute feeding of kitties and possums; without setting the timer on the video ~ we still couldn't manage to turn up on time.
It started off well enough but became Mission: Impossible when hubby decided to cook risotto for dinner.
Don't get me wrong. I love that he cooks for us. He's a fantastic cook. He can find his way around fresh herbs and spices without any help from a compass or Wii Cooking Mama.
But he's meticulous. Thorough. Each ingredient that requires chopping is slowly and methodically assessed and dissected so that each piece is the exact same size as the next. And if someone manufactured spirit-levels for chefs, we would own one.
Viewing hubby's prepped food would send an obsessive compulsive straight to Nirvana, though the trip home again could be delayed quite significantly by the sound of one hundred-times-washed hand clapping. {Don't worry, though. This überneatness is healthily counterbalanced by a disturbing habit of tossing eggshells and vegetable peels into the sink. We haven't had a sink with a garbage disposal since 1998.}
While Slow Food proponents around the globe might be rejoicing at the sound of all this, I, on the other hand, watched in horror as the clock ticked inexorably towards 8:30pm and a C minus in Social Conscience.
My inner screeching banchee grappled with my inner Dr Phil until I discovered that lying prostrate on the sofa with a bottle of gin for five minutes is an excellent home-made spirit level. Armed with a new resolve, I boldly offered myself as a sous-chef in an effort to get us over the Thin Green line. Though a little rusty, I used to hold an Honorary Speedy Gonzales diploma for my food prepping. I figure there is a time and a place for precision, like brain surgery and Swiss clocks {damn, is it already 8:20pm?}, not onions and mushrooms.
It was a valiant effort, but at 8:30pm, the arborio was still drowning in a sea of stock and only time could save it. Another sixteen point three minutes, to be precise. But after finally sitting down for dinner on the deck, we stayed in candlelight for a full hour anyway, then added a little more as the CFC-free equivalent of several Hail Marys. I don't know if it counts, but it eased the guilt somewhat.
I only hope we aren't 'outed' by Google satellite maps. I bet they didn't turn those off for Earth Hour. Damned modern technology.
