I marinated a chicken in laundry detergent.
Not on purpose. I wasn’t having a breakdown. I was trying to be rustic. That brand of accidentally-French rustic you think you’ve absorbed through osmosis from a cheese label or an overpriced cookbook with no photos.
I thought it was garlic sauce. It was not garlic sauce. It was something called Blanc Floral, which—come on—sounds exactly like something you’d drizzle over courgettes in Saint-Rémy. It even had a spoon on the label. A spoon! That’s entrapment.
It wasn’t until the third bite that I realised I’d slow-cooked dinner in what was essentially bubble bath. JC was already halfway through chewing when he made a face I can only describe as “visibly retreating from the present”. I tried to rinse my mouth with wine. That only made it taste like Sauvignon and despair.
And yet, this wasn’t even my worst food-based humiliation.
Back in Dublin, years ago, I once confused black pudding for chocolate cake on a brunch menu. Got through half a slice before the waiter gently asked if I knew what I was eating. I didn’t. I wish I still didn’t.
I was visiting an old friend at the time—he used to be a tour guide in Dublin, and now he writes stories about it on his blog. He’s one of those people who somehow makes getting lost with Americans in Temple Bar sound like a spiritual awakening. His site’s brilliant if you like wildly funny travel stories with zero filter: tourist-information-dublin.co.uk. Go read it. Just don’t do it with pudding in your mouth.
Back to Spain and the now-infamous soap chicken.
I messaged Pilar, our neighbour, to confess. I sent her a photo of the bottle, the chicken, and me looking like a broken sommelier. She sent back a crying emoji and a voice note that just said: “Tranquila. Me pasó lo mismo con el abrillantador.” Apparently, she once mistook dishwasher rinse aid for vinegar and ruined an entire lentil salad. I feel seen.
Mid-post derailment:
Toast is now on fire. I write one food-related story and suddenly the kitchen becomes a war zone. The gods mock me. Carry on.
Anyway. JC has gently suggested we stick to empanadas this week. I’ve agreed. And hidden the dishwasher tablets just in case I get adventurous again.
Moral of the story? If it foams in a frying pan, it’s not aioli. And if you ever meet a Catalan label that feels too poetic to be edible… walk away.
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