Tomatoes, Vanity and Middle Age

We need a new tin opener. After weeks of laughing at SupperBoy for making such a hash of opening cans, I confess to wrestling with it yesterday while trying to open a can of tomatoes. When I finally managed to prise the lid open with a teaspoon, it rewarded my efforts by splattering my t-shirt with tomato juice.

Now I have a kitchen apron, but have always declared myself to be a clean cook with no need of one. However, the honest truth is that I have a fear that wearing a kitchen apron somehow makes me middle aged, like wearing driving gloves, or zip-up slippers. I realise this is irrational and I certainly don’t intend to insult anyone who has the good sense to cover up, but it doesn’t make the fear go away.

Supper itself couldn’t have been easier. Some chickpeas, chorizo, cabbage, tomatoes, stock and seasoning with plenty of bread for mopping up. There’s even enough of the soupy stuff left for lunch today. While waiting for SupperBoy to get home from work, I start preparing meatballs for today’s supper and brown them off – splattering fat down my t-shirt and setting of the smoke alarm.

Later, while dutifully rinsing cans for recycling, I notice I opened the tomato can upside-down and I realise that I have suffered a senior moment – the top of the can had a ring-pull.  Time to give in to the apron.