I never chose to be a culinary goddess and yet here I am boiling the arse off some mangetout.
Meal preparation is one of the great advertising campaigns (or as this house likes to call it “mythologies”) of parenting. Become a blending barista in the soft food months. Win the love of your toddler by creating effigies of assorted zoo animals from sweet potato. Recreate scenes from Toy Story with homemade houmous in merely minutes. Invest in the future gratitude of your future teenager by stockpiling video evidence showing hours of one-on-one time and of how you toiled to give them the nutritional foundations of a four-time Olympian.
Even if pre-launch of offspring you couldn’t muster a fried egg on toast without second guessing which bit went in the toaster you, YES YOU, can be the Wunderkind of Mary Poppins, if Mary Poppins did the wild thing with Jamie Oliver.
A quick summary of 98% of all Cooking With Mother.
Chill-out tunes on; ingredients assembled; children summoned; excited washing of hands and putting-on of aprons/bin liners; safety brief; repeat of safety brief for those distracted by the sharp things during the original brief; demonstration; impatient wielding of vegetables; hear ‘Paw Patrol’ theme emanating from TV as at least one chef loses interest; watch as pastry is pummelled, pounded, torn, chewed, spat out into hand and passed to you. Prepare rest of meal alone.
A quick summary of 100% of all Cooking With Father.
Sausage & mash.
Beans on toast.
Everyone is covered in flour. No one knows why.