Poor Planning

After a flawless Halloween campaign which entailed dispensing chocolate bars to:

• 4 witches
• 2 vampires
• 1 ghost
• 1 generic superhero

I awake to find myself the victim of poor planning.

I should have twigged yesterday at the supermarket, where it seemed that the entire population of Mainz was shopping in preparation for the Apocalypse. I failed to take the step in logic that states: after All Hallows Eve, comes All Hallows Day (Allerheiligen) - which is a public holiday here in Rheinland Pfalz.

Luckily, I always have a few batches of soup or some such on hand in the freezer for times when housewifely ennui strikes and I'd rather poke myself in the eye with a fork than cook dinner. We are saved (by pea and ham soup). Huzzah!

Haus Frau Disaster #3

Puff Pastry. Two words that should strike fear into the heart of any sane person. Definitely not to be attempted by the faint of heart. Avoided by the wise.

I am neither faint of heart, nor wise.

It all began with a hankering for an old fashioned meat pie, but without the traditional ingredients of a meat pie (gristle, snouts and bottoms, hooves, the occasional rat and soforth). Our masterful plan came undone on Sunday when we realised that we forgot to buy puff pastry at the Supermarket on Saturday, and there was bugger all chance of finding anything open, so I decided I'd have a crack at the holy grail of pastry from scratch. Never. Again.

Even without the stomach churning, artery clogging thought of ALL THAT BUTTER, puff pastry is not a fun way to spend a Sunday.

The folding. The rolling. The throwing of the rolling pin through the window because the butter continually oozes out the sides or the top or the bottom of the pastry, just as it is NOT supposed to. The chilling. The waiting.

The folding. The rolling. The threats to stab ones husband with a fork for offering helpful suggestions. The chilling. The waiting.

The folding. The rolling. The tears of frustration. The continued threats to stab ones husband with a fork for the gentle hugs and encouraging words. The chilling. The waiting.

Then finally, the torment is over. The pie is in the oven. The delicious meat and gravy sits betwixt its oh-so-simple shortcrust pie base, and oh-so-teeth-clenchingly-annoying puff pastry top. Adorned with pastry leaves and expertly applied egg wash, it cooks. It even puffs a little. It appears that all may, in fact, be right in the land of Pie-donia.

But no. I'm pretty sure that puff pastry should not have the texture of an old boot with mud encrusted laces.

Hallowhat?

Last night was Halloween. This festival that has always been a big mystery to me, firstly because I'm Australian, and quite frankly, we don't usually go in for all of that palava, and secondly, I've always found the idea of Halloween to be somewhat disturbing - people, pumpkins are for roasting and making soup - Don't whittle them!

That fact that Halloween was last night had completely escaped my attention for a number of reasons:

1. I've been somewhat housebound due to a minor cash flow crisis
2. My grasp of German is tenuous at best, and therefore I find it challenging to comprehend my environment
3. I don't watch the telly or read newspapers (see reason 2)

Last night I was down in the bustling metropolis that is Bretzenheim doing some last minute shopping for dinner and I raised a quizzical eyebrow at the number of small children running around with buckets, baskets and various other receptacles. Then I saw a child dressed as a hybrid vampire/pirate, and it dawned on me - "well bugger me", I thought, "it must be Halloween", and then promptly forgot all about it and did my shopping.

So, I did actually have a 2.5 microsecond window to solve the following equation:

A + B = C

Where:
A = Presence in a shop
B = Instance of Halloween
C = Purchase of lollies

Unfortunately, I didn't.

The instant the door bell rang I knew I was in big trouble.

I proffered by best apologies, in German of course, and tried to explain that I was from Australia, and therefore not wise in the ways of Halloween. The children were reluctant to go away empty handed, so I dashed into the kitchen and grabbed the the contents of the fruit bowl and distributed the fruit amongst the very disappointed looking children. So, what was in the fruit bowl? 3 oranges, 1 tomato and a very manky looking lemon.

Children of Mainz, I'm sorry.

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Haus Frau Disaster #2

Note to self: Turn on the light while sorting the washing

So, it was early, and I wanted to get a load of washing on before German lessons, and I rummaged through the laundry basket to put a load together ready to take down to the cellar where the washing machine lives, and unwittingly included my favourite black cardigan (or Unsworth*, as I like to call them).

I threw the clothes into the machine and mindlessly selected a 60 degree wash.

The result - a shrinky dink Unsworth.

Please note, I am a proper scientist and have included a mobile phone in the photo for scale. That cardigan would be lucky to fit a 2 year old.

I loved that Unsworth - it was lovingly made by the good people of China from extra fine Australian Merino wool.

* Unsworth - named in honour of Barrie Unsworth the former NSW Premier who had a penchant for wearing cardigans.

Haus Frau Disaster #1 - The mashed potato incident

In Germany, things are different.

The "Haus Frau Disaster" Series will be a regular feature on this blog.

OK, let's get on with the humiliation....

I know that potatoes are not all the same - some are waxy, some are floury - and each is best suited to a particular use in cooking. At the time of the HFD, I did not know the German words for "waxy" and "floury", and took a punt on buying some good lookin' spuds at the market.

That night we had decided to pay homage to cross cultural cuisine and do the German version of Bangers and Mash (Würst und Kartoffel puree). Then came the fateful moment - time to mash the potato.

I knew something wasn't quite right during the mashing process, but I continued on valiantly - "a bit of butter will fix that", I thought, because as we all know, a bit of butter is always a good thing. But NO, people, it did not fix the problem, instead of fluffy, buttery mash, I had created a disturbingly yellow, highly viscous starch amalgam that would not be out of place in a petrochemical plant.

Who would of thought that mashed potatoes could go wrong?