I don’t like to admit I’m wrong very often. Actually that’s not right, I’ll admit I’m wrong at the drop of a black (I’m sure it was white) hat. What I don’t like to do is take a really firm stance on something everyone has an opinion on and then admit I might have got it wrong.
So rather than continue to fluff around the subject of how this bamboozles me like a meerkat who knows she is going to be super hungover in the morning, I’m just going to come out and say it: as of this week, I’ll be owning a Thermomix. It shall be sitting on my kitchen bench and I’ll be nattering away about homemade yoghurt and serving just-made custard to my kids after every meal.
Yes. I’m the person who referred to this appliance as a Thermodick. I clearly and calmly outlined why I didn’t need one. My points are very persuasive because I’ve been trotting them out ever since I attended my first Thermomix presentation around four years ago.
I’ve written about how I love Matt Preston (when he’s not actually masticating food like a Jersey cow) because he slagged off the Thermomix. I’ve linked time and again to Hugzilla’s hilarious viral post about the Thermomix cult and just last week I giggled as Amy of Handbag Mafia talked about the Thermomix divide and why can’t we all just get along like adults despite how our risotto happens to be plopped on the table? I even commented on her post just last week on how I didn’t want one.
My stance has been clear, immovable and passive aggressive. Until my husband, that snake in the grass, presumed to ‘know’ me enough to surprise me with one on my birthday. It will arrive some time this week.
No, I haven’t used it, but at this stage of anticipation, I’ve already turned. I’ve drunk the cordial, read the manual and started following Quirky Cooking in an effort to up my technologically advanced cookery. Oh the appliances I will purge from my kitchen, the grains I’ll turn to dust and make into cute dinner rolls, served up with homemade butter to my stunned friends who’ll smirk and whisper “You’ve changed” into their frozen margaritas (obvs direct from the Thermomix).
Considering that I’ve turned quicker than a flip-flop voter on Survivor, you might surmise I’ve wanted one all along. And my husband? He’s annoyingly correct like that a lot. I guess I’ll keep him.