Aïe aïe aïe margarita!

I recently had a series of mishaps in the kitchen. The people I live with have started to look at me doubtfully, as if I shouldn’t be allowed in the kitchen at all. For everyone’s safety. And especially not on Friday nights…

Aaah, Friday nights… Anyone who knows me knows that Friday night is Margarita night.

One recent Friday night I duly set about making cocktails for three. The ingredients include limes and the only ones I had were very hard, but I vaguely recalled reading something about nuking them in the microwave to soften them.

I took a guess at timing (my microwave is slightly dodgy in that the timer doesn’t work, so it doesn’t switch itself off, so you have to stand over it), got side-tracked, forgot, remembered again… and stopped the microwave. The limes were still rock hard. I added a further few minutes for good luck before attempting to cut them in half.

At that moment G wandered into the kitchen. I explained what I was doing. He peered at the lime as I finally managed to pierce the tough skin. It exploded, sending a jet of boiling juice into his face. OWWW he yelled. Understandably.

After reassuring us both he was not permanently blinded, I sympathised briefly, apologised profusely and proceeded doggedly with the margaritas.

A few minutes later I’d reached the stage of vigorously shaking the shaker whilst wondering idly if the top was properly on. The answer came quickly as it flew off and I stood drenched in margarita.

I remade them.

My piece de résistance that evening was to place stale bread and fat in the same microwave, set it off (to make bird cake) and forget about it until the whole house smelled of burnt fat and toast. Still does, a month later.

I have been shamed into buying a new microwave.