Folks, I have a couple of foibles. Well, I call them foibles, but they’re actually irritating quirks that make Long Suffering Wife commit murder in her heart on a daily basis.
Anyway, one of my little foibles is I’m an auto-condimenter.
Basically, someone who, no matter what meal is placed in front of them, will sprinkle, pour, douse, or slather some sort of condiment onto it.
My personal favourites are tomato sauce, black sauce, mint sauce, lemon squeeze, crushed garlic, Tartare sauce, pepper and a layer of salt so thick your mouth gets parched just looking at it.
Yes, I know it’s hardening my arteries as I type, but I don’t care at this particular time of my life, which I’ve labelled, PHA (pre-heart attack).
It’s hereditary, my Grandfather was an auto-condimenter. No matter what was put in front of him, he’d flood it with Worcester black sauce. By the way, it’s pronounced ‘woost-a-sheer’ and is nearly impossible to say if you have a lisp or missing front teeth.
Now, according to the label, the key ingredients of this wonderful elixir are anchovies, salt, vinegar, molasses, onions and sugar, six of my favourite foods all in one bottle! Seriously, if they could slip some bacon into that recipe I reckon it would become a contender for nectar of the gods.
Just like Grandad, I’ll occasionally fill a tablespoon with Worcester sauce and happily gulp it down. I’m hooked, even if it is dramatically shortening my life, just like it did his.
We auto-condimenters are not the sort of people you want on a cooking show, or in a high-class restaurant where the chefs take their art seriously. Cooks can be a bit temperamental at the best of times and they’re never far from a glittering assortment of sharp implements.
Plus, I’ve discovered chefs get slightly violent if you keep calling them cooks.
So, any chef watching me apply a thick layer of tomato sauce over their creation will probably react by cutting out my heart and roasting it.
Hopefully they’ll serve it with a generous layer of white onion sauce.