Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 119, 10 August 1927, Page 5

Mundane Musings

Apropos of Chops . THE MERE MALE’S VIEW (Written for THE SUN.) About the cooking of that chop in Monday’s Mundane Musings! And about the general inefficiency of “mere man” in the kitchen! I have “grown cold” in connection with this everlasting “housewifely” cry of “What a mess you would make of it.” There was an instance in my life when I rose up on righteous indignation at such a remark from the autocrats of the kitchen—to wit my wife and the maid of till work —and prepared to prove my contention on the following day that the food department could be run at least more economically. Coaded to the test I agreed to commence with breakfast. It was scandalous! Bills for coal, bills for blocks, bills for —for everything. Those in charge of the kitchen simply burned my earnings. . . It was a bitter morning, and it was also cruel on my wife’s part that she failed to tell the maid on the previous evening to procure the kindling wood. It was just like my wife! It was only 6.45, however, and I was not due at the office until 8. The interval was filled in thus: 6.50: Went to wash-house for kindling, but could find nothing except little J i mmy’s barrow! 7 a.m.: Put plenty of paper in the range furnace, added kindling, ignited the mass, and went to the bathroom to

7.10: Smell of something burning! Kitchen full of smoke, and fire out. That pine barrow must have been wet. Replenished paper and started her up again before going to dress. 7.20: Returned to kitchen and that fire out again! I hear my wife stirring. Kerosene! I rush for the tin, and pour a plentiful supply on the kindling wood. It burns for a time. More kerosene! There is a loud explosion, and an avalanche of soot is driven into the kitchen, almost smothering one. I lock the door to keep my wife out and make frantic efforts to get the

fire going, but in spite of copious doses of kerosene my efforts fail. 7.35: There is only time now to change my ruined suit, and inwardly cursing that forgetful maid I rush past my wife to the bedroom. She aggravates me as I pass by looking sympathetic. I would kill that maid! Out the front door I go, and close the front gate with a vicious bang. Half-way to my car I suddenly remember that I have left my concession card in my ruined suit. I rush back—just in time to see my wife and the maid pulling a roll of wet sacking out of the flue above that cursed range! Luckily they do not notice my return, and my wife wears an angelic expression as she says: “I don’t think he’ll bother us again, .Tane. Get all the sacking out and put it in the rubbish tin.” I certainly will not bother them again! But I am saving the truth up for one of those seasons when my wife sneers at my excuse for having a late night! The perverse actions of the unfair sex are most difficult to fathom, even in the simple matter of frying a chop!