That doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like tempest in a teapot, but it’ll have to do.
I made the worst pork roast of my life last night. Absolutely terrible.
After only two visits to drop-in gym time at the community centre, the baby is sick. Again.
We’re both cranky.
My foggy, muddled, sleep-deprived brain could not even manage to bung a pork roast in the dutch oven and call it dinner. No.
In my effort to be a good, frugal housewife, I rummaged through the fridge in my nightly attempt to make something lovely out of next to nothing.
I found a can of Heineken leftover from our last party, a half-eaten jar of applesauce about to go off and the defrosted pork roast that I took out yesterday but didn’t cook because I totally blanked on dinner until it was too late.
What’s that they say about the road to hell?
In my head I’m thinking ok – beer to braise, applesauce and pork are nice, maybe a little curry powder for a bit of spicy edge – I’ll go sweet and spicy. Pork and apple chutney in a pot. Perfect. In goes the beer, applesauce, curry powder, a bay leaf, allspice, cloves, garlic, onions. Done.
An couple of hours later I tasted it. Aweful. Bitter. Cloves. Oh the cloves! It tasted like pork and one of those oranges kids make at school at Christmas time. Ugh.
I said to my hubby “This is terrible.” We looked at each other for a moment and both cracked up laughing. It was terrible.
The very next moment, there I am, bawling my face off over my dutch oven. Completely lost the plot.
I sobbed, “I think I’m having a nervous break down!” And sobbed. And sobbed.
The poor hubs sat there staring at me like I had just sprouted an extra head. Meanwhile, my lovely little boy happily munched away on my terrible roast, bless his heart.
At that moment, in my mind, that friggin’ dutch oven is a microcosm of my entire life. One big well-intentioned disaster. The pork roast goes wrong and I can’t just have a laugh and dial out for pizza.
It becomes a signal of how ill-equipped I am to be a Mama and housewife, what a terrible homemaker I am, how I will never get things right, despite having all the right ingredients at hand.
Usually I never say all that out loud, because frankly, I don’t want to sound like a complete nut.
Instead I say, I’m just tired.
The truth is, of course, I am tired. My kid is sick. My mother-in-law arrives in a couple of days and I’ve been running around getting the house ready. I have a busy life. I ask a lot of myself. I’m trying to be an efficient housewife while learning to be organized and to overcome the fact that I’ve spent most of my life completely domestically disabled.
My breakdown really was a tempest in a dutch oven.
Why don’t we ever talk about how we’re really feeling when it does? Why don’t we say what we’re really thinking, so that the loved ones in our lives don’t think we’re off our nut?