I also make it very clear when addressing the topic that, as a blind person, I would classify myself as both independent and capable. This morning, however, even I am reconsidering this classification after the dramatic and disastrous events that occurred in the kitchen.
My mum had a night shift last night, and so is asleep upstairs in bed. My sister (oh yeah, I have a sister) has gone to town with some friends, and so essentially, I’m home alone, with BBC Radio 1.
* OK, they’re playing Thrift Shop — bare with me whilst I crazy-dance… Not really a song for swouncing I feel *
I decided, therefore, to attempt to make my own lunch, and put it in the fridge for later. I opted to make a pasta and bean salad(?). Basically, it’s cooked and then cooked pasta mixed with beans which are in the tin with tomato sauce. It’s actually really nice, and so I set off making it for later on today.
First of all, I stuck some pasta in a expel, and added some water. Only then did I realise that the bowl I’d picked was nowhere NEAR deep enough, and soon I had a torrent of water flowing from the side of the bowl, and me silently screaming (coz Mum asleep). I calmly (hehe) poorer the pasta into a deeper glass bowl, and then successfully added the correct volume of water (look at me, getting the right scientific measurements).
Step 1: Tick.
Next, I had to open the tin of beans. They’re like mixed beans – butter beans and kidney beans and stuff – mixed with tomato sauce. I took the tin over to the tin-opener, and worryingly opened it with very little trouble. I placed it on the counter in front of the microwave, and returned to my pasta.
Step 2: Tick.
Walking over to the microwave, I picked up the tin of beans so that I could open the microwave door, and promptly dropped this tin of beans COVERED in tomato sauce ALL OVER BOTH ME AND THE KITCHEN FLOOR…
Operation frantic clean commenced… The pasta made it into the microwave, and SOME of the beans were salvaged…
Step 3: Semi-tick.
I decided, as substitute for the dead beans, I’d open a tin of tuna and add that instead. Fifteen minutes, a lot of swearing and a mysterious dent in the tin-opener later, the tin was open, drained and ready to add. By this time, the pasta was ready, and (surprise surprise)… It actually looked and tasted like cooked pasta. Yeah, I was scared too!
Step 4: Tick.
The scent of tuna obviously tempted the cat to come and pay me a visit in the kitchen. By this point, I’m already covered in tomato sauce, angry at inanimate objects and kind of hungry. Adding a cat to the mix is probably not the wisest thing to do, but nevertheless, she came and meyowed at my feet. This caused me to lose focus and consequently burn my hand by accidentally placing it straight into the boiling hot water which I’d cooked the pasta in. Smart move, L.
Step 5: Semi-tick.
Finally, I mixed everything together in a bowl, and stuck it in the fridge with what I hope was a resentful look. The cat was still chatting away, probably asking where the hell HER tuna was, to which I say this:
“Get it yourself you lazy twit.”
Most of the time, I like to think I’m independent, capable and could survive a day at home alone. After today, however, I can’t help but reconsider these classifications, and I think you’ll be thinking similarly.