In the interests of alerting all to the potential dangers of ever having me stay as a houseguest, where I offer to cook delicious and only mildly unhealthy meals only to try and kill you, let me tell you the sad story of Mr Roast Chicken.
Oh, he was a pretty roast chicken, all trussed up and stuffed by me, surrounded by his buddies, little mr carrot and not quite so little mr potato, as well as bulbous mr onion and guaranteed not to make you any friends mr garlic. They were having such a jolly time, all hanging out together, getting a bit hot and heavy under the collar and generally raging up a storm, getting one hell of a tan and generally making me look exceptionally good to the starving masses. I even made gravy. Properly, for feck's sake. We carved. We served. We ate - Dave had manfully eaten half of his by the time I got round to starting which was when I noticed the odd taste. I had another carrot. Yup, something squeaky clean and not too edible about it. I asked the others who said that they too could taste it but no one had wanted to insult my cooking. Whoever had last used the roasting tin had indeed washed it, but not rinsed it and my beautiful roast chicken and his little vege chums were all mint and avocado washing up liquid flavoured and inedible. I was very sad. Manda was furious. She loves roast chicken. So Dave and I had a cheese toastie off and made Manda judge who was the best by blindfolding her with a mildly filthy tea towel and force feeding her. Fortunately for my reputation, I won, although it was noted by both the judge and the very bitter opposition, that I should have toasted the bread before I put the cheese on so as to avoid that slightly soggy bit you get.
I still get very sad whenever I think about the roasting tin. The situation is not made any better by me running out of chocolate and being too lazy to remedy the situation.