This is my Gran, Florence, she was 100 in March.
She is the most wonderful person I know, still lives on her own with minimal need for care. My Dad & Aunt visiter her daily and do some bits and pieces for her, but she is still active, going out 3 or 4 times a week, goes on holiday regularly and cooks all of her own meals, when she isn’t out on the town. She is as fit as a butchers dog and has never been over weight.
She is probably the finest baker known to man, still producing two batches of fairy cakes and a fruit pie of some description each week. She has to the best of my knowledge never owned
- Food mixer
- Smoothie maker
- Food processor
- Soup Maker
Yes, Florence has got all the way to 100 in pretty good fitness without the need to own, amongst other things, a soup maker.
I saw this soup creation contraption on TV last night, it looks like Heath Robinson mated a kettle with a food blender so that it chops, cooks and blends soup for you.
What The, and indeed the, Fuck?
It is described as the ultimate healthy convenience cooking. Not it isn’t, healthy cooking is working at it, peeling & chopping, standing up stirring the pan, being active, not lobbing some vegetables in to the kettle then attacking them with a food blender.
Convenience isn’t a soup maker, the busy man or woman about town won’t come back to their nondescript terraced house in their nondescript commuter belt and start making soup in this, they’ll have eaten out or grabbed a take away on the way home from their dull boring job that fits in the middle of a 4 hour commute, that’s convenience.
I’m sure that the soup maker in question is a high quality machine made to exacting standards using only the finest materials but really, a soup maker? Is this what we are becoming?
You get a soup maker and you will use it for just long enough for you to never want to eat soup again, unless it is through a straw after some horrific accident. The contraption will be consigned to the back of the cupboard never to see the light of day until you move or you die and your relatives clear out your house finding you that you were indeed a gadget hoarding freak of Edmund Trebus proportions.
Anyway must dash, the microwave has just pinged to tell me my breakfast in a tray is ready.
My gran has also never seen the internet, so the occasional use of the word fuck is ok