Dream lady, please leave me alone

Press, 2 July 1983, Page 12

Dream lady, please leave me alone

Helen Brown

I woke bleary-eyed and staggered to the kitchen. My nightie was on backwards, my hair was the

A Wellington journalist, Helen Brown, begins her weekly column in “The Press” today. Readers will find her personal perspective on life in the Home and People page every Monday, from July 11.

envy of Rod Stewart, and I could’ve sworn mv slippers were on the wrong feet.

“Whacko!” the budgie screeched. I had considered hiring him as my personal beauty consultant the night before, when I was dressed up to the eight-and-a-halfs on my way out. His shrill whistle had assured me he was developing taste. This morning his application was turned down. I fumbled with the muesli packet. For some reason, when I’d bought it I’d opened it upside down. When I took the packet from the cupboard, the floor got a liberal serving. Even the cat turned up its nose at that. “One of THOSE days, eh?” a foolhardy observer said. I’d been dreaming about That Woman again. The one in the crisp white apron, all frilly round the edges. It had a large pocket holding a selection of cottons and needles waiting to dart into action the second anyone split their jeans. She was the sort of person who bathed the dog once a fortnight and flitted about the house singing “Che Sera.” Her nature was as regular as a clock’s gentle ticking. , When her husband stepped in the door at night, she greeted him with kisses and concern — but not too much. When the cat threw up, she didn’t pretend it hadn’t in the hope someone else

would clean it up. She hauled out the bucket and disinfectant because she knew she could do the job without getting that Ferris wheel feeling. She had a dazzling career fascinating friend , and a spectacularly happy home life. She was beautiful, thin, and never wore her husband’s socks. Nobody could tell how old she was, but they thought she was about 20. In her entire life, she had not let a single person down. To top it off, my dream woman could cook. Her pavlovas put Plunket mums to shame. Her silverbeet au gratin tasted like fruit of the film stars. No-one was the same once they’d tasted her marshmallow garlic steak. Her kitchen was a breathtaking combination of Doctor Who’s space ship, garden centre, and pottery shop. Glistening pans and whisks of all shape dangled from hooks ail over the place, adding an Aladdin’s Cave effect. In this room that was so clean you could conduct heart transplants on the floor, she rustled up banquets for 22, no trouble. She was charming, funloving, dependable, and guilt-free. She never felt inferior. To tell the truth, she irritated me. Specially that morning, as I searched the

kitchen for a single pot. I’m not the sort of person friends approach for cooking hints. Although nobody’s asked yet, I do have three: (1) Lumpy gravy. Find sieve and pour gravy through. It’s so good, everyone will think you’ve bought a packet of instant. (2) Lumpy custard. Wash out gravy lumps from sieve. Pour custard through. Even Alison Holst will not be able to tell the difference. (3) Wash out sieve and hide it, so no-one has the opportunity to guess what’s been going on. I don’t mind my own cooking. But sometimes people seem to find it hard to get through. Though they never come out with anything definite, they leave things on the side of their plates and say ... “Firm meat often has more flavour ...” “Well, it’s not a sauce you’d want every day of the week ...” “It’s the way tomatoes are at this time of year ...” “Unusual ...” “But I love burnt gingernuts!” “Chewy macaroni is ... different.” I bet they don’t say things like that to my dream woman! But I’ll never know because she doesn’t talk to me. She always turns and looks as if she’s about to. That’s when I wake up, screaming.