How To Cook a Middle-Aged Woman in Her Own Home

How to Cook a Middle Aged Woman in Her Own Home

A traditional Queensland recipe

Ingredients

One middle-aged woman, preferably stubborn

One rural Queensland house with a tin roof

One air conditioner old enough to remember dial up internet

One pedestal fan with a loose neck

One Cavoodle

One elderly cattle dog

Several chickens with no respect for private property

Two trays of ice cubes

One bag of frozen peas

A bra

A garden hose

Three metres of dignity, to be discarded during preparation

Method

Begin at 6.43 in the morning.

Place the woman in the kitchen and allow her to discover that it is already thirty-two degrees.

She will know this because the butter has surrendered.

It is no longer sitting in the butter dish. It has spread itself across the bench in what appears to be a desperate attempt to reach the sink. Do not intervene. The butter understands what is coming.

The woman will open the back door, expecting a refreshing morning breeze.

Instead, the outdoors will breathe directly into her face.

This is an important step. It establishes dominance.

Close the door and allow the woman to mutter, “It’s going to be a stinker.”

Australians say this as though they have received privileged information. The Bureau of Meteorology may have issued seventeen warnings, the sky may already look like the surface of Mars, and a crow may have burst into flames on the power line, but the Australian must personally announce that it is going to be a stinker.

Now add one elderly cattle dog.

He will walk into the kitchen, look at the woman, look at his water bowl, then look back at the woman.

His expression should clearly communicate that he considers her personally responsible for summer.

Add the Cavoodle.

The Cavoodle will still want to play.

This is because Cavoodles do not recognise weather, economic downturns or civil emergencies. She will arrive carrying a filthy tennis ball and perform six rapid laps of the kitchen before collapsing dramatically beneath the ceiling fan.

Turn the ceiling fan to its highest setting.

Nothing will happen.

Turn it off, then on again.

Nothing will happen slightly faster.

Stand beneath it and stare upward as though disappointment is a recognised repair technique.

At approximately 8.15, switch on the air conditioner.

It will cough.

It will rattle.

It will release one small puff of cool air, just enough to remind the woman what hope once felt like.

Then it will display an unfamiliar symbol.

Consult the manual.

The manual will explain that the symbol means either “clean filter,” “compressor failure,” or “contact an authorised technician.”

The nearest authorised technician will be available in April.

The woman will now attempt independent repairs. These may include pressing every button on the remote, removing the batteries, replacing the batteries, slapping the side of the unit and saying, “Don’t you dare.”

This rarely repairs an air conditioner, but it does clarify the relationship.

Increase the outdoor temperature to thirty-nine degrees.

The house should now begin making noises.

Timber will creak. Metal will expand. A forgotten plastic container will fall from a cupboard for no apparent reason.

The woman will briefly wonder whether the house is haunted.

It is not.

Even ghosts have gone somewhere cooler.

At 10.00, introduce the first questionable decision.

The woman will fill a spray bottle with cold water and mist herself.

This will feel fabulous for approximately eleven seconds.

The Cavoodle will assume it is a game. The elderly dog will retreat beneath the table, having survived enough human stupidity in his lifetime.

The woman will continue spraying herself until she resembles supermarket lettuce.

She will then stand in front of the pedestal fan.

The fan should immediately turn its head away.

This particular pedestal fan has a damaged oscillation mechanism. It faces the woman for four seconds, then slowly rotates toward an empty chair and remains there, cooling nobody.

The woman will drag the chair away.

The fan will continue cooling the space where the chair used to be.

She will wedge a rolled towel into its metal neck.

The fan will make a grinding noise, droop forward and blow directly onto her knees.

Allow frustration to simmer.

At 11.30, add the chickens.

They will be standing at the back door with their wings slightly raised, looking like furious women trying not to smudge their deodorant.

The woman will take them a large bowl of iced water.

They will ignore it and attempt to enter the house.

One will succeed.

The chicken will run through the kitchen, skid on the tiles and discover the only cool place remaining in Queensland, the open refrigerator.

She will stand in front of the vegetable drawer with the confidence of someone who has made a reservation.

Remove chicken from said refrigerator.

Repeat twice.

Increase the temperature to forty-two degrees.

At this stage, the woman will abandon conventional clothing.

She will remove her shirt and stand in the kitchen wearing shorts and a bra.

This is not indecent. It is survival attire.

She will then remember a tip she once read on the internet.

Place the bra in the freezer.

The article probably suggested chilling it for ten minutes. The woman will forget it for two hours because heat has now reduced her brain to mashed potato.

While waiting, she will place a wet tea towel around her neck.

It will warm to body temperature within moments and begin to feel like a small, damp animal clinging to her throat.

Discard tea towel.

Open freezer.

Discover frozen bra.

Attempt to put it on.

This provides an exhilarating burst of cold followed by the realisation that frozen underwire has the structural flexibility of a garden rake.

The woman will hop around the kitchen, trapped halfway into the garment, while the Cavoodle barks encouragement.

The elderly dog will look away.

He is embarrassed for everyone.

Once dressed, the woman will decide that the floor tiles feel cooler than the furniture.

She will lie down.

This is the precise moment someone will knock at the front door.

It may be a delivery driver, neighbour or religious visitor. The identity is unimportant. What matters is that the woman must answer the door wearing a frozen bra, damp shorts and one frozen pea stuck to her shoulder.

She will attempt to behave normally.

“Warm enough for you?” the visitor will ask.

Australians are legally required to say this during a heatwave.

The woman will stare at him.

The visitor will sense danger and leave.

At 2.00, remove all remaining good judgement.

The woman will carry the garden hose inside through the laundry window.

Her original intention will be to fill a small tub so the dogs can cool their feet.

This is a reasonable plan.

Reason has no further role in the recipe.

The hose will flick free of the tub and whip across the laundry like an angry python, spraying the walls, the washing machine, a basket of clean towels and the woman directly in the face.

The Cavoodle will race into the water.

A chicken will reappear.

Nobody knows how she got inside again.

The elderly dog will remain under the table, silently updating his will.

The woman will wrestle the hose under control and notice that the wet tiles feel magnificent.

She will look at the laundry floor.

She will look toward the kitchen.

She will make the sort of decision that future generations will struggle to explain.

Five minutes later, she will be sitting in a child’s inflatable paddling pool in the middle of the kitchen.

The pool was purchased for a visiting grandchild. It is decorated with smiling dolphins who have never experienced a Queensland summer.

The water is four inches deep.

The woman is wearing her frozen bra and holding a glass of Riesling.

The Cavoodle is in the pool.

The chicken is perched on the edge.

The pedestal fan is still cooling the empty chair.

For one beautiful moment, peace is achieved.

Then the power goes out.

There will be silence.

Not ordinary silence.

Heatwave silence.

The silence of every electrical appliance in the district giving up at once.

The refrigerator stops humming.

The remaining ice cubes sense their approaching deaths.

Somewhere outside, a neighbour shouts a word unsuitable for publication.

The woman sits perfectly still.

A bead of sweat travels down her temple.

The Cavoodle pants.

The chicken looks smug, having never trusted electricity.

Allow the woman’s composure to rest for thirty seconds.

Then break it completely.

She will rise from the paddling pool and announce, “Right. That’s it.”

She will march outside carrying the pool under one arm, the hose under the other and the chicken tucked against her ribs.

She will place the pool beneath the largest shady tree.

She will fill it again.

She will bring out the elderly dog, the Cavoodle, a bottle of wine, a bag of frozen peas that are no longer frozen, and a battery-powered radio.

The remaining chickens will gather around.

The woman will lower herself into the pool like a Roman emperor entering a ceremonial bath.

A neighbour will look over the fence.

“Air conditioner packed it in?” he will ask.

The woman will glance at the dogs, the chickens, the floating bag of peas and the bra that has begun thawing unevenly.

“No,” she will reply. “I’m hosting a wellness retreat.”

The neighbour will nod.

This answer will seem entirely reasonable because he is standing in a wheelbarrow filled with water.

Leave everyone beneath the tree until sunset.

Serve the woman lightly poached, with frizzy hair and no remaining concern for social convention.

When the electricity returns, do not expect celebration.

By then, the woman will have discovered that the paddling pool is comfortable, chickens make surprisingly pleasant companions, and dignity is an unnecessary layer of clothing in hot weather.

For best results, repeat tomorrow.

The forecast is forty three.