Twenty minutes ago, I thought I detected a rather unpleasant burning smell.
It took a few seconds of bemused deliberation until the colloquial penny dropped...and I bolted downstairs to find out exactly what happens when you leave a pot of homebrand pasta boiling for forty-five minutes in a small pot.
The answer = half a centimetre of charcoal.
So I'm timing myself as I write this post, because it's already 1 a.m and that pasta was actually meant to be for my lunch tomorrow- well, today I suppose- so it's going to be an even later night than per usual, and now I can't make fun of my Dad's Great Pudding Explosion so much anymore.
Cooking FAIL.
I partially blame my sister. She initiated a spontaneous game of charades at midnight and so whilst I was earnestly pretending to be a house, then pretending to be an arsonist burning down the house (it was 'song names') my own flame-related disaster was merrily boiling away downstairs.
Irony FOR THE WIN.
And this is why being a crazy cat lady will be so much easier when I'm older. All you need to do is get a spoon and scoop out some jellied fish into a bowl (or one large feeding platter for my one hundred and twenty-six feline friends) and that's it. No preparation required.
Although knowing me, I'll probably end up snapping the pull ring off or something and then the cats will all turn on me and it'll be me fighting against a swarm of 126 cats and I'll run out screaming into the street clutching a can of Snappy Tom with cats clinging to my cardigan as I scream incoherently with several sets of claws in my face.
*coughs*
Righto, down to check on Pasta V2.0...
