The Wok's Tale

I started using a wok about 30 years ago. It became a habit that on Saturday nights we would have a stir-fry - so much of a habit that the meals became inextricably linked with watching 'Casualty' on TV, so much of a habit that my sons still tend to demand a stir-fry if they happen to be visiting on a Saturday. (And before you start wondering, I didn't cook one last night because we ate out. It got moved - a movable feast)

The first wok met a sad end one Advent Sunday (another transposed stir-fry!). We had been singing in a carol service on Cumbrae, and #1 son was visiting. I had just put the oil in the bottom of the wok, and turned the heat on. I turned away from the cooker to say something to visiting son, and suddenly saw his face as he looked over my head to something behind me. That something was a column of flame that reached dramatically to the low ceiling of our kitchen.

Giggling madly (why?) I pointed to the fire blanket in its holder on the wall. Neil grabbed it with such force that he half-yanked off one of the tapes, and together we advanced on the flames. By this time they had melted the handle of a pot standing nearby ...The blanket slipped off the first time; the second I managed to get it to extinguish the fire and stay put. By now, Neil was yelling to Mr B not to come into the kitchen; that all was well but that it was a bit smoky. I'll say it was - I was wheezing hideously.

In the end, we cooked and ate the dinner. The doctor I rang advised liquid Gaviscon for my scorched gullet, followed by a couple of glasses of wine, a prescription I duly followed. I didn't use that wok again - by the time we'd washed it there was a hole in the bottom. Its replacement was expensive and non-stick and I hated it; the current model is the cheap shiny one I managed to find after quite a hunt.

So: dull day, boring photo - but a good tale. The Wok's Tale!