In fact, I recognised him the very first time I met him, saw at once that he was what I needed, that he could fulfil a role in my life that nothing else could. He was actually living in my mother-in-law's house at the time but I didn't let that stop me. I enticed him away. Actually, it wasn't that difficult as she really wasn't that keen on him and considered him, if anything, a bit of a waste of space. I knew different and welcomed him into my home where he has been ever since. Until Sunday. First Born and I were making bread. And we killed my Kenwood Chef.
That's him there. In all his made-in-the-Seventies orange splendour. With, I hope you note, a proper stainless steel bowl, none of that plastic rubbish. We were trying to recreate the Swiss Sunday Bread that First Born found so addictive and decided that, rather than knead it ourselves, we would be lazy and stick the Kenwood on with the dough hook. All went well for a couple of minutes, I was washing up and FB was watching the dough bouncing around the bowl when suddenly Kenwood (as I like to call him) had a sort of fit. He speeded up to maximum without warning and then ground to a halt. An ominous smell of burning filled the kitchen. I leapt over to him, my heart in my mouth and switched him off. I frantically checked him over, Husband heard the commotion and came to see if he could help, but it was too late. His motor had gone. I pronounced him dead.
Now I don't know what to do - I don't think I could take to one of those new fangled mixers all clean and sensible-coloured and without that distinctive whining groan that Kenwood had when he started up. Sigh. Well, I suppose I should be grateful that he had such a good time in his final years once I
(You can click on that photo to enlarge it if you are brave enough to cope with that wallpaper as well as my youthful girning.)
And do you know the worst thing? I got the bread recipe off the internet and it was AWFUL. Even FB wouldn't eat it.