Burnt fajitas chronicles

Yesterday, I was a veritable domestic deity, the very embodiment of organisation. The planets had aligned, and I had prepped dinner with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. Each ingredient was perfectly measured, and the kitchen was a testament to my unparalleled efficiency. The family, each coming home at different times, would have their hot meal waiting, thanks to my meticulous planning.

So, there I was, a culinary maestro in my apron, giving my best Gordon Ramsay impression while cooking fajitas. I turned off the cooker, placed a tea towel over the wok – my version of a culinary turban – and strutted away, basking in the glow of my accomplishment. I imagined the tea towel as a valiant knight's shield, protecting our meal from any sneaky flies.

Thirty minutes later, my husband walked into the kitchen. His eyes widened in horror, and he asked, "Why did you put the tea towel over the dinner?"

With a smug smile, I replied, "Well, to keep the flies away, of course."

Then came the moment of truth. He looked at me, his face a mix of confusion and amusement, and asked, "Do you want to turn the hob off?"

I froze. A wave of realisation washed over me as I slowly turned to the cooker. Instead of turning the hob off, I had actually turned it on full blast. The tea towel, now singed and toasty, had miraculously not caught fire. The fajitas, however, looked like they had been through a volcanic eruption.

I could almost hear the food screaming, "We were supposed to be hot, not incinerated!"

In that moment, the smell of charred food wafting through the kitchen, I had a choice: laugh or cry. I chose to laugh, because let's face it, life’s too short to cry over burnt fajitas. Besides, we’ve all been there, right? That moment when you're riding high on the wave of competence, only to be unceremoniously dumped into the ocean of reality.

Perhaps it was the menopausal brain fog – that delightful state where my memory is about as reliable as a politician's promise. One minute, you're a competent adult, and the next, you’re wandering around the house wondering why you walked into a room. The hot flushes are just the icing on the cake, making every cooking endeavour feel like you're in a tropical rainforest.

Resilience isn't just about bouncing back from life's grand catastrophes; sometimes, it's about laughing at the small disasters. It's about embracing the messy, imperfect moments that make life deliciously unpredictable. It's knowing that no matter how burnt the dinner gets, there's always a takeaway.

So, here's to the burnt dinners, the forgotten hobs, and the tea towels that narrowly escape a fiery demise. Here's to the laughter that follows the chaos and the resilience that keeps us moving forward. After all, life's a rollercoaster, and it's the ups and downs – along with the menopausal mind blanks – that make the ride worthwhile.

Next time, I'll double-check the hob. Or maybe I'll just order a curry.

How do you embrace and laugh through the small disasters in your life? Share your stories and tips below!

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