Don't Drink and Cook

When Stan and I were living in Dubai there was an amusing piece in the Gulf News, the English language daily, from a New Zealand paper (they pilfered many of their stories from other sources much like our papers do) warning against the dangers of drinking while cooking with a gas stove. Apparently, there had been a problem with cooks getting “in the sauce” while cooking the sauce and starting fires with their cook tops. At the time we found this quite amusing. Just ask Stan; he knows I don’t need to be drinking to cause a fire in the kitchen. In fact, I rather enjoy making fires in my kitchen, but apparently the Kiwis were either setting their clothes on fire or falling asleep at the dinner table while the gas stove flamed away. You can only imagine the limitless possibilities for disaster.

So….it was with humor we recalled this story one recent night in mi cocina. It was the night Stan falsely accused me of attempting to “salt” him to death.

We enjoyed a day at the beach and then celebrated hora feliz (happy hour) with a few margaritas. Remember, the margaritas are SERIOUS down here. Tequila and lime juice. Finito. I was cooking dinner. This particular evening’s menu promised potatoes and peppers in the skillet topped with fried eggs; served up with corn tortillas purchased from the tortilleria and my home made salsa.

I’m enjoying another margarita and cooking away. The blue flames of the gas burner are licking the sides of the pan. The potatoes and peppers are sizzling. But wait, potatoes need salt, right? Salt. The salt isn’t coming out fast enough. Hey, take the lid off the salt shaker. Dump. At least 1/2 cup of salt spilled out onto the potatoes, down the side of the pan, and onto the stove.

Hmmm, well potatoes soak up salt, right? Stan’s had several margaritas, too. I should be okay. He won’t even notice. I did my best to scrape the salt to the side of the skillet, added the eggs to the mess, warmed the tortillas, dinner was served! Well, Stan’s tastes have refined considerably since he married me. My little incident did not go unnoticed, but he ate it. And we were both up in the middle of the night gulping mas aqua.

The next morning, Stan went to the stove where the dirty pan still sat with a pile of salt crusted in one corner. A pile of salt also remained on the stove.

“You shouldn’t drink and cook,” he said calmly, “you nearly salted me to death, like some lowly slug.”

Well, all’s well that ends well. New casa rule (and it’s NOT what you might be thinking): DON’T DRINK AND SALT!