Dinner parties and other things

Iam a big fan of dinner parties. Friends and family coming together, lots of good banter going around the dinner table and of course, delicious food that makes guests smile.

I’d consider myself an above average cook – I’m not the kind of person who is content to just serve up stir fry or a throw-together meal that can be ready in an hour.

For people who know me and my family, it’s become a sort of novelty where if you’re going to some sort of social function at the Babington house, don’t eat dinner beforehand because there will always be a massive array of goodies in the kitchen upon arrival.

Bestie’s husband even changed my name in his phone to an egg emoji after I made breakfast for a group of us a few years back because, yes, the scrambled eggs were that good.

Despite sharing the love of a good meal among family and friends, I am a lone wolf when it comes to the cooking.

I can’t stand having people helping me in the kitchen; if I’m cooking at home on a weeknight, Dad will usually ask ‘‘what can I do to help?’’ and is met with ‘‘leave’’.

However, there was one night recently when accepting a helping hand might have avoided a pasta disaster.

A couple of months ago, a friend invited a few of us to a party where the objective was to bring along people who did not know the host, in an effort to encourage others to meet new people.

It turned out that I sucked at that game and only spoke to people I knew/half-knew because apparently human interaction scares me.

But as such situations usually require a dose of Dutch courage, I invited everyone round for a meal of hearty carbohydrates in preparation for the shindig.

One friend is a vegetarian and, being the inclusive cook I am, I wanted to make a significant part of the main meal vegetarianfriendly.

But let’s not get too drastic, I cooked roast chicken as well.

Obviously since I am a caveman and did not know any delicious vegetarian dishes off the top of my head (that weren’t just a salad or a plate of sauteed vegetables), I sat down with my friend Google and trawled the internet.

With a trusty looking Jamie Oliver recipe for mushroom and cauliflower penne in hand, I set out to the supermarket to pick up the ingredients.

The picture accompanying the recipe couldn’t have been more inviting; the sauce looked creamy and lush, mushrooms delicately placed throughout the dish, and finished off with a sprinkling of chopped parsley.

Mushroom pasta – simple, right? Wrong.

What a grotesque disaster it was indeed.

Maestro Oliver called for sliced mushrooms and cauliflower florets to be added to pan of sauteed garlic and onion, and cooked gently for 10 minutes.

There was nothing gentle about it.

I can’t remember how it happened but, soon after, a horrific burning smell fills the kitchen and my beautiful vegetarian dish is now a stodgy reddish-brown mess, burnt to a crisp on the bottom.

The top wasn’t burnt, so I thought I could at least salvage half of the mixture, but then I made the stupid mistake of picking up the wooden spoon and mixing it.

Shards of charcoal that used to be onion were now speckled all throughout the dish and there wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell of this pasta ever redeeming itself.

It looked like cat vomit on top of spaghetti, garnished with a sprinkling of black dust.

I blame the ridiculous food movement that is trying to convince the world cauliflower is a delicious substitute for carbs. Guess what? IT’S NOT. Next time, I think I’ll be sticking to jar-ready tomato pasta sauce and roast potatoes for my vegetarian options (soz friends).