The Pumpkin Soup Incident
I looked in the mirror. My clothes were tight: the timeframe, short. I needed a ‘buffer zone’ for the extravagant buffets and banquets that would be part of my husband’s work exchange to California. A work exchange where I would be joining him for the finale – an annual conference in a swanky hotel in Indian Wells. I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable and so, despite the summer heat, concluded there was only one, quick and foolproof solution – the soup diet. I got cracking on the veggies and stock.
All went well until I filled the liquidiser and turned it on. The familiar whirring sound ensued, followed by an ear-splitting explosion. That day, I had my first experience of unbridled, clinical shock. I remember being rooted to the spot, hyperventilating, as I processed what had just happened. Boiling hot, pumpkin goo lay in blotches on the floor, worksurfaces and walls. I slowly came to the realisation the goo was burning my legs, but as I took my first steps away from the lava lake that had formed around my feet, the second and third problems became apparent. The soup was filled with chunks of broken glass and was slippery as all hell.
It was at that moment our dog entered the picture, sniffing at the edges of the lethal puddle. The mess and potential harm were serious enough without our spaniel getting cut, burnt or walking pumpkin paw prints all over the house. Gripping the edge of the island bench top, I slid and skidded my way to an area of clean tiles and grabbed onto her collar. Despite being free of the soup swimming pool, the soles of my feet remained covered in a layer of vegetable matter that could have given black ice a run for its money. The risk of slipping and cracking my head on the tiles was undiminished. With care, in extremis, and praying our dog didn’t jerk or lunge, I picked my way to the back door and put her outside, unhelpfully creating my own set of slimy footprints in the process. I then turned to assess the sunflower scene of destruction.
There was nothing left of the glass liquidiser jug, save for a few shard-like spikes around the base. The force of the explosion had sent the contents in a wide arc assisted, no doubt, by the liquidiser’s design – an old workhorse that sat atop a full-sized bowl mixer. It was indescribable, like a 1970’s photograph tinged in marigold. A forensic scientist might have found interest or amusement, perhaps, in the splatter pattern. I did not. By now, the burns on my legs were beginning to throb, demanding my attention, along with several rivulets of bright red blood that contrasted nicely with the yellow, a kind of reverse of the ‘golden arches’. The cuts weren’t serious, thank goodness, but the stinging sensation suggested hot soup and open wounds were not a good mix. The first aid kit was in a cupboard within the disaster zone so a compromise had to be made. I walked more gunge into the laundry, filled a bucket with cold water, stepped inside and sluiced my scorched and cut legs as best as I was able. Antiseptic cream and Elastoplast would have to wait.
With spotless feet and improved skin, I pondered the clean-up. Knowing where to start was the first challenge, including the business of gathering necessary tools. Reaching my cleaning products was fraught with danger and involved re-entering the lava lake. It took hours – wipe, rinse, repeat - and even though I thought I’d done a good job, I found little pumpkin patches, hidden away, for days afterwards. Once the carnage was dealt with, I remember bursting into tears, grateful I hadn’t been seriously burnt or cut to ribbons by flying glass.
Moral of the story: read and take heed of manufacturer’s instructions. DO NOT put boiling soup in a liquidiser and turn it on. You have been warned!