Mrs Thermomix

For years, Sue’s family hid their culinary pain behind a Dolmio grin. She unenthusiastically produced grotesque parodies of real dinners with a Kan-not Tong attitude. Their dinner-scape was a soviet winter and the only respite was her husband burning some Coles’ snags on the BBQ every summer.

That all changed when one of the admin-hens from her office invited her to a Thermomix presentation. See you can’t just own a Thermomix, oh no, it isn’t some plebtronic appliance like a fucking breadmaker, you needed a special invitation to own one. Naturally, this unnecessary consumer step gave people an inflated sense of importance and a cult was formed. 

Sue watched on in amazement as her friend demonstrated how to make potato & leek soup, beetroot dip and naughty cocktails. She instantly pledged her allegiance as a disciple to the gospel of shit a $90 blender could do. Except she paid $2000 and her husband didn’t talk to her for a month, not that she cared, she was too busy getting her thermo-fix from freebasing recipes like a thermo-fiend. 

Each day, she would come into work with a new Tupperware container full of shit nobody cared about and banged on about her heroic transformation into a walking, living Michelin star. One day, poor Danielle thought she’d mention she bought a Kogan Thermoblend for $200, “it’s practically the same!” Big. Fucking. Mistake. 

Now, the Thermafia are closed-lipped on what exactly happened, however, the next day someone made a complaint to HR that Danielle was responsible for leaving dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. She never did manage to claw back her clout among the office ladies and whenever she looked in Sue’s eyes she knew she had been crushed like a bug. Sue wasn’t lubing up spiders. 

Months passed and Sue fully committed to Thermomix and became a consultant. She hosted her first presentation party and invited the most malleable friends she knew. This wasn’t just about sharing the Thermomix obsession, it was about making $220 from bullying each of these spineless specimens into a sale.

Almost everyone in the class bought a unit that day. Except for Wendy. Wendy took a few more days, but Sue knew that in Thermo-cooking or in coercing friends the secret was applying enough heat.

 She embarked on a week-long assault on Wendy’s insecurities and convinced her that her husband looks at other women because her arse is fat from all the non-Thermomix food she eats. Eventually, Wendy yielded. They always do. Alas, Wendy’s problems were just beginning. 

That night, Wendy took her Thermomix home and prepared a ragu. She wanted to win her husband over with a steamy, exotic dish and add a little spice to their missionary food-life. It was all going so well until her Thermomix decided to do what they do best and blew up in her face. She was covered in thick Italian napalm and was rushed to the hospital for treatment. 

Sue was understandably concerned and went to see her friend the next day. She sat by her hospital bed and held her hand, “if there is anything I can do for you Wendy please let me know”. Wendy sobbed, “My medical bills will be large and It would mean a lot….” Sue anticipates what she’s going to say and stops her, “Shoosh, darling, shoosh”.

She pulls out a steaming bowl of ragu from her thermo-bag and gestures it towards her crispy friend, “now Wendy, you aren’t about to ask for my commission back are you, that would make me feel ever so clumsy”. At that moment Wendy receives a message from her husband, “I found the top of the broken Thermomix in our bed, what the hell, Wendy?”

Don Sue has spoken. 

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