Now I’m no Nigella – sorry, Nigellissima, but I do try. Sometimes. And when I do make the effort to step away from the freezer drawer and cook a hearty meal from scratch I get really fed up when my efforts go unappreciated by my four little darlings. I actually sulk a bit. You see I want my children to grow up with memories of mum’s unbeatable cooking. To rush home from student digs and overseas adventures declaring to anyone who’ll listen that no one does a roast like mum or that mum’s macaroni cheese has to be tasted to be believed. In my dreams.
Jake, though not a huge fan of school, loves history and in particular studying the Greek Myths. My heart swells with pride as he sits with his head buried in a hardback book on the subject, the minutes and hours ticking by without an electronic gadget in sight.
I’ve kind of gone off the whole subject recently. It’s left a rather bad taste in my mouth.
“Sorry Mum, but you’re Achilles’ heel is cooking,” said my charming nine year old pushing his plate of salmon and broccoli away with barely concealed disgust before heading into the kitchen in search of the biscuit tin . Seeing my face fall he started back pedaling faster than Lance Armstrong. I was speechless, a little winded and didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or reward him for his impressive use of the famous phrase with a wagon wheel.
It’s hard not to just give up when it comes to the kitchen. Surrender to the wonders of the ready meal and jumbo bags of frozen shapes.
But hang on. Toast. I make a really good slice of toast. You should see me with a butter knife and a jar of marmite. Now that’s worth cutting short your gap year for, surely?
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