How opening a simple jar nearly had me beet I

BATTLED a beetroot jar the other day.

This is a particularly dangerous aspect of kitchen combat, as I know to my cost, after previous encounters that were undertaken with foolish aggression.

Be warned, that Marquess of Queensbury rules do not apply. Beetroot takes no prisoners.

Why food and drink manufacturers need to clamp the tops onto their jars so tightly is beyond me.

I have had similar struggles with the ring pulls of cans that are so small you need the digits of a baby chimp and the strength of a Barbary Ape to make it work, and it was only the other year that my thirst cost me £200.

I couldn’t break the seal on a pop bottle and my wife took it from me with a shrug that spelled hopeless, put it in her mouth, and broke both the seal and a back tooth. Two hundred quid for the repair.

Many foodstuffs have caused problems, but none is quite so vicious as beetroot.

My hands aren’t the size of shovels. They are, I like to think, artistic.

And it is true that I suffer from Repetitive Strain Injury from a lifetime of journalism.

I actually saw a doctor about RSI, many years ago.

“I use a keyboard,” I said. “Ah. You’re a musician?” he replied.

“No. A journalist.” Strange how his interest waned. For sympathy’s sake, I would have been better off pretending to be in a heavy metal band and ate bats on a nightly basis.

Journalism these days doesn’t get a good Press.

My grasp is still good enough to cover the circumference of a beetroot jar but the thing wouldn’t budge when I tried to twist the lid.

The last time I had been successful I had held it close to my chest and heaved: which was a mistake.

The top came off and I suffered purple rain all down my shirt.

As I said, beetroot takes no prisoners. “It won’t open,” I said to Maria. “Try stabbing it,” she said. “Well, I’m cross with it, but wouldn’t go that far.”

“It’ll release the air,” she said, choosing a large kitchen knife and going at it with a glee rarely seen since Jack Nicholson attacked a door in The Shining. “Now try it,” she said. I could hardly refuse, seeing as she was still holding the carving knife. It opened. “See?” Like the beetroot, I accepted her female logic, superiority and blade skills. At least this time I didn’t get purple rain down my shirt.