No Use Crying Over Spilt Teriyaki

Yet again I was playing master chef. Steve was not feeling too good so I thought I would try and cheer him up with, in my mind, what I do best; food. I decided to make an onion based cous-cous, stir fried veg (done in toasted sesame oil), and strips of Teriyaki chicken (done on the George). The big plates came out, I successfully moulded the couscous into a master chef style mounds, the veg was tastefully displayed at the foot of each couscous tower, and the strips of teriyaki chicken were constructed into a tee-pee over the couscous! Very impressive I thought. I smelt good, it looked . . . interesting, I was actually quite excited about my tea!

Not quite so masterchef-like was our then laziness in having tea in bed!! Yes, this may seem disgustingly slobbish, but sometimes its necessary. However, Snoopy had another idea. I love my snoopy slippers, but I forget I can't actually walk in them. I scaled the stairs, a lovingly designed dinner in either hand, just one more step to go when Snoopy raised his evil head! As in slow motion I watched the plates fly through the air, I watched the waterfall of beansprouts and poultry pause momentarily mid flight, as I crumpled down onto my knee and elbow (on the edge of a step) There was CRACK! that echoed the break in my heart!

I must have sat staring at the mountainous mess and broken ceramics on the floor and wall for a good couple of minutes. I couldn't believe it. Steve stood looking on apologetically as if he had been the one who told snoopy to play such a wicked trick. And then I started to cry. There has been so much going on in my head of late it was as if, all of a sudden, the licks of brown juice on my skirting board were just the final blow. Whilst trying to pick out the grains of couscous in my carpet, I sobbed, thinking, "Is this a metaphor for our dreams?" (Ok, just so you don't think I'm totally melodramatic; various dreams of people have recently been quashed or come into serious question, including mine). Was this beautiful, now inedible, pile of mulch the proof that had been looming for so long. Was this dinner disaster telling me that dreams are not supposed to be fulfilled? Just as I was destined never to eat my chicken terriyaki?

Sobbing still, picking myself up on my scuffed knee and bruised elbow, I carried the matted hair, floor nast and (probably) toe nail flavoured coucous back down the stairs in a mournful procession. As I poured the remains into my compost pot, Steve came and wrapped his arms around me. He gently wiped away the running mascara on my cheek and gave me a kiss. This made me see the coucous mess in another way. Maybe it wasn't a metaphor that dreams cannot be reached at all. Maybe I had misread it. Maybe it meant our dreams could be reached if we are desperate enough - If we can put up with the crap that comes with reaching the goal, If we can eat the chicken along with the carpet fluff and meters of hair? Dreams should be hard to reach, and sometimes unpleasant on the way. It makes the satisfaction of reaching them all the better.

Starving still, out came the prawns and another sachet of coucous (I like it!). Cooked off the onions again, added some veg and garilc and left my couscous to cook. As I piri-piried my prawns I started thinking differently again. Maybe not ALL dreams are achieveable but it doesn't mean you shouldn't have them. Just change your ambitions, change your dreams. Change to piri-piri prawns! Ok, they may not be what you originally wanted, they may not seem as appealing, but my god, when you reach them you feel better then ever.

For now, I will just have to dream of my chicken teriyaki . . . . as I need to buy more chicken!

Nx