Weaponised Incompetence
Ah, Christmas. A time for love, family, and orchestrating a performance so grand it could sweep the Oscars for Best Avoidance of Domestic Duties. This year, I found myself starring in an unscripted production I like to call “The Strategic Art of Weaponised Incompetence: A Christmas Kitchen Survival Story.” The goal? Escape from the culinary trenches without being labelled a complete scrooge.
Let’s set the scene: the kitchen, mid-morning. The air is thick with the scent of half-prepped potatoes, herbs, and a suspicious glint in my family’s eyes as they hand me a potato peeler—a device I regard with as much bewilderment as a quantum physicist confronted with horoscopes. But fear not, for I have a plan: to embody incompetence with the dedication of a method actor.
My first move? The potato peeling scene. Now, as a programmer, my hands are better suited to keyboards than culinary contraptions. So, I lean into the role, feigning confusion. “Does one peel from the top, the bottom, or do potatoes even have a top and bottom?” I muse aloud. My family, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, watches as I peel at a rate that could only be considered tortoise-like. Potato skins fly off in bizarre arcs, defying the laws of physics and leaving a Jackson Pollock-inspired mess across the countertop. My loved ones exchange glances; the plan is working.
Then, onto the next act: chopping. Ah, the knife—a tool as mysterious to me as recursion is to a beginner programmer. My chopping rhythm has all the precision of a drummer with one arm. Carrots become trapezoids, onions are shredded as if they were old tax documents, and as for consistency? Let’s just say, each piece was a unique, artisanal interpretation of what “dicing” could mean. At this point, my family begins murmuring about “setting the table,” but I feign deafness. I’m just getting started.
Enter the pièce de résistance: the gravy. A culinary task that, they assure me, is impossible to mess up. Impossible? Challenge accepted. As I stare into the murky depths of the gravy pot, my mind wanders to arrays and memory allocation, and I think, “More salt is better, right?” With the enthusiasm of a novice coder adding comments to every line, I dump in salt, my precision rivaling that of a caffeinated octopus. The result? A gravy so salty that it might have been able to mummify Tutankhamun himself.
By this time, my family is actively herding me toward the dining room, and the verdict is in: I am officially banned from any and all food prep duties henceforth. With a final sigh, I graciously accept my new, much less risky role as “table setter.” And as I meticulously arrange cutlery and napkins, I glance back at the kitchen, watching my family whip together the remaining dishes in peace, now free of my “help.”
Weaponised incompetence: a Christmas success story, and a holiday tradition in the making.
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