Jesus Wants My
Sunbeam
by Hazel
Girolamo
There comes a
time in everyone’s life when you turn to a
trusted friend and find they are not there
anymore. It made me think that perhaps I hadn't
appreciated fully the role he had played in my
life. He had been new in the era of BC, before
cholesterol and many a meal was burned between us
while learning the new ways. His glory days had
been with the now unfashionable fry up, no extra
virgin to be found then, a great lump of lard and
he was cooking! Quickly showing off his
versatility, one day as a roaster, then a crepe
pan or a skillet, the next a deep fryer, spitting
out hot fat to show his contempt for the fries
that bind. We ran the gauntlet of TV chefs,
galloping gourmets and Bernard King. We fried
Chinese and Sichuan, Indian, Mediterranean and
Greek. Now it’s all stir fries and health
grills, Teflon and non –stick steamer
options but he was the original grease beneath my
lid. I will never understand how he managed to
flame grill bacon but he always be relied upon to
find the weakest link.
The memorable
day when a blow fly landed in the full depths of
his curry. To dish or not to dish, that was the
question, so I fished it out and made sure I
served from the other side. A tear trickled down
my cheek as I recalled a darker, crisper age when
roast potatoes went from crunch to charcoal
before you could say bean sprouts and go on to
poach an egg without batting his square lid but
resentment simmered after I accidentally tipped
in a whole tin of crushed garlic and I detected a
gradual warming in his heatproof handles. All he
ever needed was a good going over with Big Boy
Cleanser every once and awhile but time and harsh
abrasives catches up on us all. Hard times began
when he couldn’t put a crust on a carrot and
refused to surrender anything crumbed gracefully,
finally becoming unhinged by the incredible
staying power of a baked on crud that resisted
steel wool, twenty four hour soaking and the cat’s
teeth. With his cord half melted and the little
metal disc worn smooth and flapping in the steam,
I recalled those immortal words; Do not immerse
in water beyond this point, and I knew those
halcyon days of prying the last of the pork rind
of his bottom, were over.
The egg slice,
the spatula, crowbar, hammer and tongs stand
together in silent tribute. Now as the griddle
marks of life slowly etch ever deeper, it is time
to say, farewell old friend as I fondly recall
all the browned off mince, the chickens baked and
fried and my favorite steak, well done, good and
faithful servant. Well done.
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