The B3ta Cookbook
We're bored of beans on toast. Pretend you're on Pinterest and share your cooking tips and recipes. Can't cook? Don't let that stop you telling us about the disastrous shit you've made.
( , Thu 28 Jun 2012, 21:56)
We're bored of beans on toast. Pretend you're on Pinterest and share your cooking tips and recipes. Can't cook? Don't let that stop you telling us about the disastrous shit you've made.
( , Thu 28 Jun 2012, 21:56)
« Go Back
FIRE IN THE HOLE!
I rather foolishly once allowed my old housemate to cook for me one night, after having discussed my steak chorizo and lime chilli recipe (forthcoming)
this was the night before a festival.
you know when you can pinpoint exactly what's gone wrong with a recipe from look and taste?
having not watched him cook this, i can tell you with some certainty that his recipe was, as follows:
take pack of shitty cheap mince
add most of a container of hot chilli powder, one chopped white onion, a tin of cheap tomatoes, a tin of kidney beans and a small pinch of cumin. throw into a saucepan and cook over fierce heat until the bottom smoulders and welds itself to the pan.
serve to friend who is about to spend four days in a field with terrifying portaloos.
i managed to eat about 1/3 of a bowl before my eyelids were sweating so fiercely i couldn't see. i abandoned ship, claiming to be full (tact) and went and guzzled a pot of greek yoghurt. nothing. tried fresh fruit, banana, chocolate, milk, nothing would extinguish the flames. horrible horrible stuff. i retreated to my room whimpering, and after about half an hour, my innards started to make a noise like a dishwasher draining.
this was only the start.
seriously, my arsehole was like a fucking oxyacetylene lance for three days. forget shit through the eye of a needle, i could have melted the needle and the hand holding it. imagine that, but happening in the confines of portaloos in thirty degree heat, i'm sweating, tears in my eyes, clutching a woefully inadequate amount of cheap scratchy festival toilet paper, with mount fucking vesuvius blasting clods of molten magma out of my jacksie like a goddamn gatling cannon loaded with mace. the smell is indescribable, i actually exited a portaloo once, the person behind me stepped in, LEAPT out, caught up with me to call me a dirty bastard..
i have never forgiven him for the event. anything he ever cooks again, i look at with the same distrust i would give a hole in the road covered with corrugated iron if i was driving through afghanistan in an army jeep.
( , Fri 29 Jun 2012, 13:41, 7 replies)
I rather foolishly once allowed my old housemate to cook for me one night, after having discussed my steak chorizo and lime chilli recipe (forthcoming)
this was the night before a festival.
you know when you can pinpoint exactly what's gone wrong with a recipe from look and taste?
having not watched him cook this, i can tell you with some certainty that his recipe was, as follows:
take pack of shitty cheap mince
add most of a container of hot chilli powder, one chopped white onion, a tin of cheap tomatoes, a tin of kidney beans and a small pinch of cumin. throw into a saucepan and cook over fierce heat until the bottom smoulders and welds itself to the pan.
serve to friend who is about to spend four days in a field with terrifying portaloos.
i managed to eat about 1/3 of a bowl before my eyelids were sweating so fiercely i couldn't see. i abandoned ship, claiming to be full (tact) and went and guzzled a pot of greek yoghurt. nothing. tried fresh fruit, banana, chocolate, milk, nothing would extinguish the flames. horrible horrible stuff. i retreated to my room whimpering, and after about half an hour, my innards started to make a noise like a dishwasher draining.
this was only the start.
seriously, my arsehole was like a fucking oxyacetylene lance for three days. forget shit through the eye of a needle, i could have melted the needle and the hand holding it. imagine that, but happening in the confines of portaloos in thirty degree heat, i'm sweating, tears in my eyes, clutching a woefully inadequate amount of cheap scratchy festival toilet paper, with mount fucking vesuvius blasting clods of molten magma out of my jacksie like a goddamn gatling cannon loaded with mace. the smell is indescribable, i actually exited a portaloo once, the person behind me stepped in, LEAPT out, caught up with me to call me a dirty bastard..
i have never forgiven him for the event. anything he ever cooks again, i look at with the same distrust i would give a hole in the road covered with corrugated iron if i was driving through afghanistan in an army jeep.
( , Fri 29 Jun 2012, 13:41, 7 replies)
it's the tenuous linking to cookery that makes it more of a challenge
variety ain't what it used to be
( , Fri 29 Jun 2012, 15:20, closed)
variety ain't what it used to be
( , Fri 29 Jun 2012, 15:20, closed)
This
produced a sharp burst of cackling in a dry and empty office.
( , Fri 29 Jun 2012, 14:42, closed)
produced a sharp burst of cackling in a dry and empty office.
( , Fri 29 Jun 2012, 14:42, closed)
'my innards started to make a noise like a dishwasher draining'
click.
( , Sun 1 Jul 2012, 22:57, closed)
click.
( , Sun 1 Jul 2012, 22:57, closed)
« Go Back