Oh, how I love my new-to-me caravan. If it hadn’t been for the purchase of Georgina, as she has been christened, this new kitchen malarkey would have been a disaster.
Once the Salad Days were over, it would have been slow cooker casseroles every night. And as we have been blessed with some balmy nights and baking hot days recently, that would not have gone down too well at Shoogly Towers.
So instead I have been tripping merrily back and forth to Georgina with pans and tortellini/ravioli/insert your own Italian filled pasta dish of preference, etc etc. And although she’s a quite, ahem, compact caravan with a teeny weeny oven, she can cook a couple of small pizzas and a garlic baguette at the same time. Magic. What more do you need?
The YMs are delighted that pizza can be cooked in the caravan, especially the Young Mistress, who was seriously unchuffed at the thought that Friday Night Pizza Night was off the menu for the forthcoming.
Her mantra has become: “Mum, I’m soooo looking forward to that new oven.” And every time she says that, a little voice - which is growing louder and louder the longer I wait for the new kitchen - says: ‘not as much as me, my darling, not as much as me.’
Oh how I envy friends with their double ovens, at eye-level, with those doors that pull up and out, and their touch-button hobs that instantly boil a pan of water as soon as it’s placed on the top.
I look longingly as the space where my new oven and hob will go. In the meantime, the microwave has been micro-ed and wave-ed to within an inch of its life.
I’m not quite sure what to do when it’s all finished. It could be a double-edged sword. I suppose the expectation will be to pull out all the stops and make a slap-up celebratory meal.
Hang on a minute, that’s not much of a celebration for the chef, ie. me. Is it permissible to swing a bottle of champagne at it?
Or just toast its health, drink the champagne and pass out incapable of cooking, thus ensuring the purchase of a take-away and no cooking. Sorted.
Perhaps I’ll just wander up and down polishing bits and opening the soft close drawers just to hear them whoosh shut.
How long I have waited to hear the sound of whooshing, instead of creaking and banging. Oh, how very long I’ve waited for an integrated fridge. What fun and jolly japes the YMs and I will have skipping up and down opening doors and laughing as we try to find out which door the fridge is behind. Until that day, the slow cooker, Georgina’s modest oven and two-burner hob, plus the trusty microwave will continue to get a real beasting.
The kitchen sink is now all that’s left of the old kitchen - once that’s gone the new units can all be fitted. And it will go soon, once Elliott the plumber comes and deals with an errant cast iron pipe we have discovered lurking behind the old units.
So I guess my status will officially be ‘in between kitchens’ for a while longer, in pretty much the same way Zsa Zsa Gabor might find herself in between husbands. Most inconvenient. She once famously said: “I’m a good housekeeper. When I leave a man, I keep his house.” You gotta have it in the first place to keep it, Zsa Zsa.