Well, well, well. If it isn’t me, the career drinker behind Spit or Swallow, finally admitting a truth more shocking than my love for off-dry red boxed wine. I only recently discovered the air fryer.
Yes, I know. How could I have overlooked this countertop phenomenon for so long? I mean, here I was, tirelessly cooking for nearly two decades for a husband who couldn’t tell his Mash from his Smash.
Then came Bestie, my best friend, soul mate, my personal live-in chef who has not only been my saving grace but my edible safety net for longer than I care to admit. While I was swirling, sniffing, and swallowing (metaphorically, mostly) my way through the world’s most exquisite beverages, my Bestie, a qualified chef, has been whipping up food feats in his spare time that would make even the most hardcore gastro critic weep.
But even in the lap of luxury, tragedy inevitably knocks. After seven glorious years, Bestie is set to take sail to do some field work while broadening his culinary repertoire. Cooking for one I can handle but the sheer barbarity of the washing up? The thought of dirtying multiple pots just for one serving of sad, single-person risotto turned my stomach faster than an overly ripe piece of brie.
To be frank, Bestie isn’t just a culinary demi-god for me; he is the dishwasher, the scullery maid, the clean freak. The one who keeps the cat litter clean and the kitchen looking like a magazine spread on a daily basis.
It was during this moment of existential fear, contemplating a future filled with lukewarm instant noodles and manual labor, that Bestie suggested I invest in an air fryer.
Knowing my limitations are vast and my tolerance for grime is nonexistent, Bestie took me shopping.
There, amidst the gleaming appliances and the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked artisan bread, we found it: a sleek, black, Philips RapidAir Airfryer 2000 Series.
“This,” Bestie declared, “is going to be your new saving grace”.
The air fryer now sits proudly on my countertop, a silent sentinel of my impending domestic rebirth and the promise of a single, non-stick, dishwasher-safe basket.
As I watched a batch of bacon followed by chicken sausage take on colour and flavour, something shifted. A tiny spark of excitement ignited in the dark corners of my “hangry” soul. This sleek, black box of wonders has piqued my interest. Even more so, it’s providing a much-needed bridge for my kitchen transition from pro-drinker with a personal live-in chef for a bestie to a competent and perfectly capable home cook who refuses to scrub a pot or serve up Smash.