How not to cook

Welcome to the second segment of one writ that I promise will never end. Inspiration for this piece is very frequent but I feel the need to clarify that I can cook. I choose to document my bad days in the kitchen and laugh it off with all that drop by. So in just one day I successfully prepared two meals that were a total fail,of course the bar of comparison being previous similar meals that I have made well. Scratch that, better. Waking up early has never been my thing but I love finishing house chores early enough. This leaves me with the luxury of lots of time to my disposal. Not that I have much to do with this much time;sleep,eat,write,read,play in no apparent order. Today was no exception to my routine. I woke up in good time to make breakfast which in homes this side of the world has always been tea. So accustomed am I to this activity that I need not measure whatever I am adding to the tea. The amount is a constant. My elder sis made dough for,well my eyes judged mandazi. The dough was light to my eyes and much lighter in texture so I felt right. Mama has always insisted on having mandazi cooked over charcoal claiming that we,she,should save on gas usage. Who wants a tongue lash early in the morning? I heed to her word. When the cooking oil heats up I start placing my well rolled and cut dough into the fat. Then I noticed it wasn’t swelling up as is the norm. Upon tasting it, I realised I had made a huge error. Of course I decide to ask first. I woke my sister up and she confirmed my doubt,chapatti. The dough was meant for chapatti. Good thing I wasn’t far into the cooking of the ‘good’ mandazi. I switch up to frying pan but my trouble was not over just yet. Like afore mentioned the dough was too light. It kept sticking up on the rolling stick and board. Is it ever too early to curse? My chapattis had such a shape. Then came lunch time. Githeri it is. Since I had made much of it the previous day,I just needed to fry up enough for the girls. The salt wasn’t enough. I kept adding and it still wasn’t tasting. Then it became a little too much. Water saves the day or so I thought. It turned out to be so salty that you could hardly swallow a churned up bit of it. The soup had it all. Of course the girls complained, this time not even all the love I spice up my food with could salvage me.

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