My beloved Thermomix.
I still remember the first time I laid eyes on you, I was halfway through my first pregnancy and my best friend had invited me over for dinner.
You were bright, shiny and practically glowing with promise – the promise of facilitating my transformation from someone who once added six cups of salt stock to a saucepan in an attempt to make chicken soup – into someone who could (and would, endlessly) make natural peanut butter from scratch.
I watched in absolute awe as a mutual friend used her beloved ‘Thermie’ to whip up a beetroot, carrot and apple salad, a chicken curry and mango sorbet. All while barely breaking into a sweat, and schooling me on how it halved her groceries.
There’s nothing like the impending arrival of your child to make you reassess your entire life. I’d spent a large amount of time attempting to picture how exactly my life would change, I couldn’t fathom how in a few short months I’d be completely responsible for another human being.
Whilst I’d mastered some forms of adulting, I could barely boil an egg. All I knew was that I had a six-month grace period before I’d have to start preparing nutritious meals and snacks to keep my kid alive.
Growing up, I was treated to incredibly tasty home-cooked meals. My mum, an excellent and very resourceful cook, spent most nights banging around the kitchen, the entire contents of the cupboards spread across our benches in order to prepare a feast to feed our family of six and whichever extra straggler or two had decided to stay.
Cooking felt hard, overwhelming, MESSY. And expensive.