It will fizz and, hopefully, explode. But the boiling oil beckons.
For the past three months as a kitchen porter, I've developed a seriously unhealthy frying problem, the likes of which would almost definitely warrant a Ramsay-esque bollocking from my oblivious head chef.
I've secretly beer battered chunks of cheese. I've deep fried whole rashers of bacon. I've waited for said head chef to go on a fag break and scarfed my scalding hot, golden-brown abominations.
I have to be honest with myself: I have a problem.
My addiction is all-consuming. All shall be fried. In the name of science, for the glory of the act of frying itself. And, most importantly, because working next to the deep fryer has unleashed a deep sense of playfulness and childlike desire to experiment that I haven't felt in a long time.
Some KPs want to watch the world burn. I want to batter it.