Homefront horrors

Most of my home disasters have always revolved around food or entertaining, so probably top of the list would be the famous ‘no show!’ Shortly after moving to Mallorca we invited a dozen locals to a private dinner party. We planned weeks in advance (as you do in the UK), and wanted to impress with our infallible English flair - a five-course extravaganza to start at 8pm with cocktails on the terrace, not realising for one minute that some Mallorcans would consider that a late lunch!

9 o´clock came and went. No one arrived. As 9.30 approached we got twitchy and started phoning around. The excuses came innocently enough without guilt or apology. “Oh, is it today?” “Biel is at a funeral!” “Xesca has gone to a rock concert.” “Marti and partner are still in bed having a belated siesta!” Marga had simply forgotten, and Juan didn’t even know where he was! We didn’t realise that party invites were taken so casually in Mallorca. It doesn’t seem to bother the locals whether they turn up or not! Mallorcans have grown up with this casual social culture their entire lives.

However, everyone we phoned suddenly panicked, and in true Mallorcan style, rallied round wearing huge smiles not far off 10.30pm. The food was naturally beyond ruined yet no-one was bothered! They drank the drink enthusiastically, picked at the dried offerings, and chatted happily into the early hours. In-fact we couldn’t get rid of them!

“We must do this again,” they gushed around 2am. But we didn’t! We learnt that most Mallorcans don’t really ‘do’ English dinner parties with set courses. They prefer a rustic lunch, a barbeque or an impromptu get together where you’re not really missed if you don’t turn up. And so do we now! Where locals are concerned it’s much easier and better all round for everyone!

Another home-front disaster involved raisin wine which I made from ‘Drink Your Entire Garden!’ The wine would miraculously be ready to imbibe within three weeks! “Store it somewhere cosy”, said the recipe, which incidentally made three bottles. Two of which had corks. The third had a screw top. I stored the brew behind the fridge. It was actually quite warm there!

Two weeks later, I curiously opened one bottle to see how it was coming along. “Psssttttt! came the sound of air escaping as I unscrewed the cap. “Oh, it’s going to be a sparkling wine,” I mused, re-screwing tightly and replacing the bottle back with the others.

Four months passed and English friends came round for dinner. One guest brought a bottle of his own home-crafted ‘elderberry’ vinification. “Oh, I’ve made a sparkling wine,” I exclaimed, suddenly remembering my own forgotten fizzy refresco. I returned with my screw-top. The guests were seated on our newly upholstered sofa. “Listen to this!” I boasted, hoping to re-create the delicate ‘Psssttttt!’ as I unscrewed the tight cap.

‘BOOM!’ Foaming wine shot from the bottle neck in a constant jet that wouldn’t stop. Cathy took the hit, and was drenched from highlights to heels, absorbing the entire bottle, which incidentally smelled like brandy.

The other two bottles we exploded ourselves outside, rather than involving a bomb disposal unit! Needless to say, I never made ‘raisin fizz’ again. And Cathy still twitches at the sight of a sultana!
A third memorable mishap occurred when we were renting a house and duly discovered that using the oven plus one ring on the hob was a big no-no, especially when an electric radiator was also engaged. Plugging in the kettle was enough to knock out the national grid!

One particular evening, the oven was ticking over, two rings were rocking nicely and a radiator was firing up with no power protest! Brilliant!!! I served the meal then someone said: “Is that wall on fire?” The ‘leccy’ box had burst into flames! It could have been disastrous, but quick action saved the day, and probably the house. We moved out soon after that after discovering that none of the wiring was actually earthed.

Other domestic disasters have included the lid coming off the cayenne pepper whilst lightly dusting a finished dish. And watching a lemon meringue pie slip through the oven gloves, becoming ‘deconstructed’ as it hit the floor.

Possibly the most visually alarming incident however, came from Missy our cat, who delivered a two-foot long hairball, complete with sound effects, under the glass topped dining table. But at least she had the good grace to deliver between courses. And she did miss everyone’s shoes!