The aioli incident

Sprog 1’s long-daycare buddy is coming to lunch tomorrow with her family. It’s so lovely that we’ve stayed in touch. I’m preparing a Spanish barbie to celebrate: Manchego cheese, chorizo and olives for starters; marinated steak, garlicky potato salad and greens for main; mandarin cake for dessert (recipes to follow over the coming days). Yesterday I thought I’d do some prep. I started with the aioli for the potatoes. As I’ve previously moaned, my favourite aioli, by Ronda, has disappeared from the shelves of Woolies. Every week, I forlornly check the labels of all the other aioli-like substances at Woolies and reconfirm that they contain crap like sugar or corn syrup or soybean oil. Ronda aioli was just oil, eggs and … something natural, can’t remember. So I decided I’d better make my own. I’ve made my own aioli previously and it was a doddle (sort of, ish). Yesterday was not a farking doddle. It was a farking ordeal. Two hours of my life that I will never farking get back. The farking aioli wouldn’t emulisify. And when it did, it farking separated again. At the fourth attempt – I was up to 10 eggs by then, good thing I’ve got chooks – things were starting to get a bit heated (for both me and the stick blender). I was due at Sprog 2’s computer class at 1.55pm. I hadn’t had lunch (note to self: making aioli is a good diet trick, no time to eat). When the stick blender became too hot to handle, I switched to a whisk and consoled myself with the knowledge that my arms were getting a good workout. Then my arms started to ache, so I pressed the still-warm stick blender into service again, praying it wouldn’t explode. At that moment, what was finally approaching an acceptable aioli separated AGAIN and I was FARKING OVER IT. So I lost the plot, tipped all the failed aiolis into a bowl and whisked the absolute, frenzied shite out of them with the stick blender in a blind fury. And a kitchen miracle occurred. It turned into fair-dinkum aioli. I fully expect to open the fridge this morning to find it looking like watery spew. But, at 1.50pm yesterday, it looked like aioli. Hallejuluah! My back ached, my neck ached, my brain ached … but I had farking aioli. I bolted to the computer and flung an expat tale onto housegoeshome to save my fragile ego from horribly low stats, then raced to the school for Sprog 2’s computer class. Computer class was possibly worse than making aioli, although fortunately only half as long. Imagine being in a room with 25 small children, all miss-typing their passwords while simultaneously farting … Good thing I hadn’t had lunch or I might have lost it. So, my verdict on aioli is – go and buy the farking stuff at a deli. Who gives a shite if it has soybean oil, sugar or potato or any of that shite in it. It’s $3.99 a tub, money well spent. Fark aioli. Fark it to hell. And don’t get me started on Husband coming home and saying “How was your day, dear?” and me ranting about my nightmare day making aioli. Best not to go there. Another cliched North Shore housewife alert …