It’s that time of year ago, when children and husbands are home for a week in the winter with nothing useful to do. Danger time.
HRH has taken it upon himself, without consulting with me as usual, that he will use this time to make miso. Except that apparently it isn’t really miso (which is made from fermented soybeans) but some other kind of miso-esque condiment that is made from fermented rice.
Insert headache here.
In his infinite wisdom, he started this messy project on Christmas Eve. It has slowly but surely expanded, taking over a good portion of the counter space I needed to prepare Christmas dinner, never mind all of the other meals a family of four must eat on a daily basis.
I had no idea how long this will take or what it would involve, since he didn’t tell me. Of course I also did not know he would be using all of my Tupperware and mixing bowls, or that they would be left with a yucky fermented rice slimy goo in the sink for me to wash afterwards.
Perhaps you have sensed that I am less than enthusiastic about this project.
Two days ago, HRH was rummaging about our Chamber of Secrets, ie spare room turned Man Space (enter at your own risk) for the old rice cooker we have yet to throw away but can’t find all the parts to. He gets this out because he says he needs it to keep his darling pseudo-miso warm.
At first, I was like
Whatever man. But THEN
I noticed he had the rice maker switched ON, with the fermenting rice goo inside, the lid to the machine open, and covered with a cloth, sitting on the floor between the high chair and Me First’s chair, and that he intended to leave it like that all night long.
No, no, no on so many levels.
That machine gets hot. Hot enough to boil water hot. You don’t leave something that gets that hot open and on all night, much less covered with a cloth, much less three inches away from a window with bamboo blinds. Hello, fire hazard?
And besides that, really, on the floor besides the children’s places at the dinner table?! Negligence resulting in injury. Plus it’s just stupid.
And apparently I’m being a bitch because I have a problem with this.
But sometimes I guess you just have to be a bitch if you don’t want your house to burn down.