I have had a Thermomix for 72 hours.
And I no longer recognise myself.
I have joined a cult. I am one of those people now. If it were crack cocaine, this is the time you would stage an intervention.
I have brought cakes to work two, no three days in a row. (Colleagues very happy with this development, I might say.)
I’m reading food blogs. I never read food blogs. Previously, the extent of my food blogginess was looking for a potato salad recipe on Taste and staring wistfully at photos of Donna Hay hoping that by a process of osmosis I too could style elegant food on clean white crockery while wearing effortless linen shifts.
But as I write this, I am planning my night with infinite precision so that I can turn out a child friendly chicken casserole and caramelised apple cake to bring to the office tomorrow.
Even Bachelor Tim loves a freakin’ Thermomix, guys. Post continues after video…
I know my TMX (yep, we have our own lingo and I’m TOTALLY across it) I know my TM5 recipes from my TM31 and can convert between the two with limited internet assistance.
I’m planning on only buying raw sugar forevermore, because you can mill that shit down to icing sugar in four seconds mofos.
This weekend you will find me in the aisles of my local Costco looking for eleventy billion kilo bags of almonds so that I will never ever again have to buy almond meal. I may not make my way out of there, have you been to Costco? Huge. HUGE. As are the bottles of margarita mix. And with my Thermomix I might add, I can crush margarita ice faster than you can say, “would you like tacos with that?”
And in the meantime, you’ll find me mixing it up (geddit?) in the Facebook groups of slightly neurotic thermogroupies discussing the best potato for mixing up a good mash with your butterfly… not a euphemism.
In short, it’s been an amazing three days. I’m in love. It’s nothing but hot wet rice and home made custard from here in.
Goodbye world, it’s been nice knowing you.