We are a horribly traditional couple, and no role model at all for our grandchildren. If it’s jobs round the house that need doing, Malcolm’s your man. He’s a very handy plumber, and spending the morning fiddling with the electrics presents him with no problems at all. He’s good at what he does. I’m not even any use as the gopher. I’ll bring him the wrong sort of screwdriver, and am apt to confuse hammers and mallets.
Cooking however is a different story. I’ll open the fridge and plan a meal round whatever catches my eye or needs using up. I read recipe books for fun, but rarely use them whilst actually cooking. Spending time in the kitchen is relaxing for me. Malcolm requires a detailed recipe, and if he finds we’re out of some minor ingredient, the planned-for dish is hastily abandoned. In advance of actually cooking, he carefully lines up, measures and weighs all he needs, just like Delia Smith used to do.
So this Christmas, I’ve given him a present designed to remove cooking-related stress. Here it is: a whole book of dishes needing only five ingredients, and top of the best-seller lists as well.
Very meanly though, I’ve insisted that in return for the gift, he has to plan and cook a dish from it once a week.
He says he’s up for the challenge. Happily, he hasn’t given me a D-I-Y book in return. No home deserves my botched attempts at repair and maintenance. Instead, he’s given me this: much more my cup of tea.
- Malcolm says I ought to call this post ‘The Poisoned Chalice’. I think that’s a bit harsh.