If you can’t stand the flames leaping up from the deep fryer on Chinese Chicken night, get out of the kitchen. But first, be sure to grab your smartphone for a Google and an Instagram.
My sons have been writing exams lately. My eldest is in Matric, so I thought, since these exams are very important, that I would try for a Mommy Badge by making them their favourite dinner, one that I don’t make very often because I am not terribly good at it.
It’s my mother’s recipe and we call it Chinese Chicken. Basically, you make a sweet ‘n sour sauce from a whole lot of pantry staples and then deep fry some battered chicken. I know, right? When last did you deep fry something? Remember when home chips were not oven chips?
Not a healthy dinner option, but a comforting one, and that’s what teenagers need when studying… a stable calm family environment, full of winning maternal love and support.
As I don’t have a deepfryer, I used my trusty stock pot. Do you know how much sunflower oil it takes to fill a stock pot? A lot, I can tell you. And while I don’t have a deepfryer, I do have a new rice cooker, because my sons and I plan to learn how to make sushi come spring.
So I deep fried the chicken, chided myself on how I clearly put too much baking powder in the batter (I should really use spoons as opposed to the Merry Chuck Method), put that aside and then fussed with my new rice cooker. Then we sat down to eat in front of the telly, getting a quick episode of our current series in before the last study session of the evening.
Only there wasn’t to be a last study session. Because – who knew? – if you leave a big stock pot full of boiling oil on a burner turned up on high and leave it alone, there’s a high chance smoke with start whispering under the closed lounge door, while nifty, tinkling and popping noises provided an alarming accompaniment.
‘”Holy Moses, the kitchen’s on fire,” shouted my husband, as the glass cracked in the kitchen door and smoke started pouring in (I’m not sure I’m allowed to swear in these columns. But…he didn’t really say Holy Moses.)
I helpfully threw a wet towel on to burning pot, causng the flames to spike and the burning extractor fan to fall down, bounce off the smouldering kitchen table and land searingly on the linoleum.
“Mom, did you just put water on an oil fire?” asked Son2, worryingly calm. “Everyone knows you don’t put water on an oil fire.”
“So what DO you put on an oil fire?” I shrieked as the curtains caught on fire.
“Not sure, let me Google it,” he said.
“LET ME GOOGLE IT?” I screamed. “HOLY MOSES, did you just say LET ME GOOGLE IT?”
“I already did,” said Son1. “Apparently Bicarbonate of Soda is good. Do we have any?”
I learnt lots of things that evening. My repeated efforts to learn to bake over the last 20 years have led to a truly stupendous amount of Bicarbonate of Soda in our top cupboard. Sand is also good on an oil fire. The Captain of our closest fire station is a sweetie.
Also… I should not deep fry things. Teenagers have different mental reflexes to grownups, or just a new tech/adrenaline hybrid. I didn’t like those curtains anyway…and there are few things more sexy than watching a fireman bandage up your husband’s burnt forearm.
“I can’t believe I wasn’t outside when the fire brigade arrived, I said. “I’d have loved to take a picture to show my mom. I mean, her Chinese Chicken got a fire truck to come down our suburban road, sirens blazing! That’s worth a pic.”
“No worries, said Son2. “I put a Boomerang of it on Instagram.”
As we sat on the outside bench waiting for the smoke to clear, so we could go back and assess the damage, Son1 patted me on the back and gave me a loving little side hug. ‘Don’t worry Mom. We have insurance right? But… could we get InstaEats to just bring the Sweet ‘n Sour Chicken next time?”
I think that’s a stellar idea. My stock pot is going back to making stock. As soon as we have a stove again. Which, is another story.
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