Inspired by the recent discussion on Notes from Josephine about why so many of us can't be bothered to cook anymore - well, me anyway - I decided to fish out a recipe from the "untried and tested" pile languishing on top of the microwave, and whip up a nourishing vegetarian soup: Curried Parsnip and Butterbean. The recipe called for a mere 50g of parsnips compared to 400g of butterbeans, and on the basis that the parsnip was listed before the butterbean, positioning it as the greater component, I immediately added a "o" to the weight. Why, 50g of parsnip isn't even a whole vegetable! It is about four penny rounds' worth...
So I made the soup, which smelt wonderfully fragrant thanks to the high quality curry powder I had bought from a little grocer's in town (dating back to the 16th century!). Then I poured it into the liquidiser jug, before realising that the perspex insert to the top was missing. The white lid was in place, but with a hole in the middle of it there was no way I could turn the darn thing on, or the contents would shoot up and out the top like a curried parsnip and butterbean geyser.
Furious rummaging and banging in cupboards ensued as I hunted for the missing part. Mr Bonkers was summoned to the kitchen and peremptorily asked if he might have inadvertently thrown away the plastic insert while washing up, thinking it was a bit of packaging. He denied all knowledge of its whereabouts (he doesn't wash up very often, so it was a long shot), and I resumed my fruitless search.
Suddenly an inspired idea for a temporary bodged solution occurred to me: take one of those plastic lids you get with individual one cup filters, place firmly over the hole in the centre of the blender lid, activate device, and hope to minimise collateral splatter.
The machine whirred into action, and my ears were instantly assailed by a sickening crunch, a ghastly noise beyond the normal grinding sound of metal prongs against yielding morsels of soft parsnip. Something made me interrupt the process and peer inside the goblet, where my eye was struck by the presence of tiny bluish perspex shards bobbing around in a sea of greenish gloop.
Oh my God....that's where the top was! Why didn't I think to look inside first, given that that is the cupboard where I always keep the blender and its accessories. Doh, doh, and triple doh! But before I upended the jug and flushed its potentially lacerating contents down the loo, I took a moment to smell the aroma of the concoction I had accidentally made.
Well, the main notes in this original accord were: sweet, comforting warm root vegetable, assorted curry spices, ground plastic, and a hint of burnt machinery parts - the olfactory equivalent of crashed gears, if you will. Hmm, I haven't smelt this accord before exactly - part Amouage Lyric, part JPG MaDame - but I am sure it won't be long before it is eagerly embraced by the more avant-garde wing of modern perfumery. I think it would be aa perfect addition to the Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's catalogue of Bewitching Brews.... Thematically, it would slot in nicely between BRIMSTONE ("A smoky, gritty blend, husky & gray") and DELIRIUM ("A contrary, conflicted scent bubbling with merry madness". They could call it "Sinister Sliver-Strewn Soup" or something suitably Gothic and off the wall.
UPDATE: I have since managed to track down a spare blender stopper for just £5.90 incl P & P from Belstar Electrics!
Photos are my own except for the coffee filter cup from Rombouts' website.