‮hjap‮

This evening, Jehane decided she wanted pasta. At midnight.

I live to serve.

Fusilli bubbling away nicely on the back hob with the Secret Ingredients. Pork neatly chopped and diced, ready to be seared before I add it to the sauce. Frying pan with fat just getting hot. I have some nice maple-cure bacon fat left over from this morning that will go marvellously with the pork.

Fat just properly hot. Wouldn't it be nice to put a few drops of tabasco in right before the pork, so that the pork gets coated nicely in the seasoning?

CEILING-HIGH FLAMES.

And not just a single WUMP of CEILING-HIGH FLAMES, but a PERSISTENT, ALL-CONSUMING, EIGHT-FOOT PILLAR OF CONFLAGRATION that lasts for the amount of time it takes for me to shout OH! FUCK!, carefully put down the tabasco and the spatula, (pause for the tiniest of split seconds to marvel at my magnificent creation,) Jehane comes running through from the bedroom, and I whip the pan out towards the sink.

The pan is—understandably—still nice and hot, so I put the pork in. My cherubic innocent look is somewhat marred by the fact that Jehane saw the mighty tower of incandescence, and also that the flat is now filled with black smoke.

The pork tastes deliciously chargrilled and goes fantastically with the pesto pasta.

And I can cook with flame. I AM MAN.