I have a strange relationship with cooking.
I am, in effect, a good cook. My speciality is Coq Au Vin, as learnt from Delia Smith, and I suspect the reason she is so good at it is because that’s the only ‘Coq’ she’s getting at her age.
I love French food. I love anything to do with France really. In my head, I will end up retiring to an idyllic village in Brittany cycling around with bread and cheese in my basket.
In reality, when I lived in Brittany, we used to cycle to and from the beach wasted so often that if someone didn’t end up in the ditch it wasn’t a night out and I once had to go back in the morning to recover my flip flop.
So although I can cook these lovely, intricate things, I struggle with the basics.
Eggs amaze me. If I boil one, it either comes out like something that is produced by your vadge during childbirth or something you shoot out of a cannon. Scrambling is fairly straight forward, and my omelettes end up being scrambled eggs any way. I’m lucky to have scrambled eggs as a way to disguise my disastrous omelettes.
I don’t know about you, readers, but it’s the SIMPLE things that mess me up in cooking. One mothers day when I was about 14, I thought I’d do a good deed and make my Mum hot cross buns. Now in this day and age most fire hazards have a lot of warning (see the stick person on fire on the back of boxes of matches), but greaseproof paper, did, and still does not, come with a ‘please do not put under the grill warning’.
Needless to say my Mums mothers day that year consisted of me taking her up a cup of tea and saying ‘grill was on fire, put it out, late for school now bye’.
Pot noodles. How can someone cook a lovely Mediterranean salmon with their eyes closed and not make a Pot Noodle. I’m sure this is a well known fact but IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE NOT TO MAKE A POT NOODLE CRUNCHY. When I make a Pot Noodle I feel like I’m eating curry flavour cornflakes.
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