Exploding soup a blend of domestic failure

Exploding soup a blend of domestic failure

I like to think I am a feminist, but have a sneaking suspicion that this might be because I could never cut it in a traditional female role.

My husband's mother set a precedent I could never hope to emulate. She was a beautiful woman, loved by all, a caring and impeccable mother and wife, never cross, and with never an unkind word.

I can see from my husband's face - and sometimes what he just comes out and says - that I am somewhat wide of the mark.

He never pictured that when he came home and asked what was for dinner, the answer would be, "I dunno, what are you cooking?" or "you might find some leftovers in the fridge if you're lucky. Don't eat the steak, it's two weeks old".

He didn't picture himself clumsily stitching on a button, let alone lapping the shops, trying to find one that would take up his jeans.

We finally have a lovely home, but it is in dire need of maintenance inside and out. The top of the trampoline is ankle-deep in leaves and beneath it is ankle-deep in the dog's bones. There are more plants growing out of the gutters than in the garden.

Inside, no one has seen the top of the hall table for many years. Any photos that need to be taken are carefully staged in a clear spot, often angling up towards the roof where we haven't found a way to store things yet.

But possibly one of my worst housewifely moments of all time came just last week.

One of the things I can cook well is pumpkin soup, and a kindly friend - who knows her way around a Thermomix - had given me a pumpkin.

All was going well. First small batch ready and waiting. Batch two in the blender in the walk-in pantry.

There is a warning that comes with the blender. It says don't try and blend things that are too hot. I have never thought that applied to me.

I went to dismantle the blender. It exploded. I screamed.

My husband snored on. My daughter left it just long enough for me to be safely dismembered or electrocuted before coming to investigate.

Her "now I've seen it all" face looked at my orange self before checking out the pantry. It was entirely orange. Orange on the floors, orange on the walls, orange on all the items in the pantry, orange dripping from the ceiling.

"What did you do?" she asked, in a tired kind of way.

I nudged the cat into the pantry and shut the door, standing in the puddle oozing from underneath. After a stunned silence, there was a scratching. No deal. I let him out, carrying his offended orange feet as high as could get them.

I looked at the clock - 45 minutes until my showgirl dancing class. I cleaned like a whirlwind, turning the odd jar or two around to the pumpkin-free side for a faster result.

The child fed with the unexploded batch, I made it to showgirl dancing class just five minutes late.

"Hey," came a friendly voice from across the room, "did you know you've got pumpkin on your face?"

Another epic housewife fail.

Marie Low is a freelance journalist