In the lead up to Christmas last year, MBH (my better half) and I invited friends visiting from overseas, Bob and Peter, to join us for a home-cooked meal. I was determined to pull off a Bree Van de Kamp culinary experience and make the catch-up an evening to remember. Memorable it was.
There’s a split level in our home between the kitchen and the dining room that we had forgotten to warn our guests about. Disaster struck when Bob missed the step on his way to the loo and stacked it against the toilet door in a tumble worthy of a Cirque du Soleil show. Rushing to his rescue, MBH checked for broken bones while I sourced a bag of frozen peas for Bob’s sprained thumb. Luckily, the rest of him was intact.
Moments later, a bottle of bubbly was opened and champagne flutes filled and distributed. Things were looking up. After toasting each other’s good health and Bob’s crooked thumb, I took a sip from my glass and winced. The bubbly had gone flat and tasted like cat’s piss.
“Right, that’s two strikes,” I said to myself, as Bob scanned the room looking for a place to ditch his mouthful. “Time to step it up!”
MBH replaced the drinks while I pulled the baked lasagne out of the oven and placed it on the dining table. Once everyone was seated, I handed the serving spoons to Peter. “Please dig in,” I said. Lifting the lid off the Le Creuset dish, I did a double-take. The pasta had turned into béchamel soup and had sunk quicker than the Titanic to the bottom of the dish. Note to self: Next time leave the lid off while baking.
“It smells lovely,” said Peter reassuringly. “Yes, it looks…interesting,” added Bob, helping himself to the cheesy liquid. “Bad luck always comes in threes,” I joked, guffawing like Woody Allen caught in an awkward moment.
Several minutes into dinner, I felt something brushing against my leg. Assuming it was the table cloth, I thought nothing of it until I glanced down. Making its way towards the opening in my shorts was a giant cockroach. Trying not to choke on a mouthful of food, I brushed the insect to the floor. Rather than scuttle away discreetly, the mutant roach flew across the table and landed on the wall in full glorious view of our guests.
“Isn’t that a cockroach?“ asked Bob, squinting his eyes to get a better look. “No, it’s a Christmas beetle,” I offered. “Yes,” confirmed MBH, winking at me while refilling everyone’s wine glasses. “Australian variety…Love ‘em!”
Bree Van de Kamp couldn’t have made a better save.
