I burnt myself cooking, didn’t I? While I love a good sore, both my boss and my partner have been turned into squirming schoolgirls at the sight of my horrid blisters. If you’re made of stronger stuff, there’s a picture under the fold.
Despite the obvious qualification of my ability to look marvellous in finger bandages and the earnest protestations of my niece and nephew, I will not be applying to be on the next series of Masterchef. I think it’s highly unlikely that a fat 38 year old mother of young sons who derives great personal joy from cooking and who lives in a suburban regional area will win two years on the trot. If you’ve got a zingier profile, you can apply here.
Doesn’t hurt a bit, due to the marvel that is an aloe vera plant that can survive the Canberra winter.