It is embarrassing to admit, but I can’t cook. My mother thought she could cook, but couldn’t, and mildly poisoned us on a regular basis. My father was old school and believed a man’s place was in front of the television with a gin and tonic and not in the kitchen mixing the poisons. With no pressure from my mother, I happily joined my father in front of the TV and stole the occasional slurp of the G&T when he left the room (helped to settle the stomach after mother’s cooking).
When I married, my wife decided to try and encourage me to cook and, to keep things simple, bought me a Magic Roundabout cookbook. For those of you who have not been exposed to this gem of subversive children’s TV, The Magic Roundabout was originally a French production which was adapted by Eric Thompson (father of Emma) and converted into a work of genius. The main character was Dougal, a grumpy dog with a personality akin to Tony Hancock. There was Dylan the stoned-hippy rabbit, Ermintrude the dopey cow and Brian the well-meaning snail, consistently abused by Dougal. It was a show for children with humour for adults and I have the complete collection on DVD somewhere.
As usual, I digress. Armed with my cookbook for kiddies I embarked upon what was probably the greatest culinary disaster since Alfred the Great burnt the cakes. I tried to follow a recipe that was meant to produce a chocolate cake that looked like Dougal the dog; but the result was more akin in both looks and texture to a large dog turd. I thought is tasted quite good (as dog turds go) and the children worked bravely through their slices (more like lumps than slices); but there was projectile vomiting later and a clear embargo against my cooking forever more; which suited me just fine. It became known in family lore as “the day that Dad tried to cook” and I expect young lives were permanently damaged in some way on that day; but that’s what happens when you give a cookbook to someone totally inept at almost everything.
My second and current wife has clearly decided that there is no point trying to teach an old dog new tricks, especially when he doesn’t even seem to know any old tricks. I am allowed, and willing, to wash up and I am pretty good at breaking things in the name of DIY. But mixing together my breakfast ingredients in a bowl is as close as I get to cooking. Until now.
It’s the bloody breadmaking machine. Most cooking involves throwing stuff in a pan and after hours of work the ingredients come out looking pretty much the same as they went in, only hotter and more edible. But when you make bread there is yeast involved and all sorts of magic goes on which results in everything swelling up and getting bigger. I can only think of one other activity that can have the same result, but then that involves nappy changing and school fees, and I don’t want to get involved with that again thank you very much.
I was so intrigued with the possibility of this process that I got straight onto that nice Mr. Amazon and got him to send me a book on bread making. And not just bread, but buns and little cakes (but nothing on offer that looks anything like a dog). As well as recipes for breadmakers, there are also traditional recipes which require advanced techniques such as kneading of which I know nothing.
Nothing daunted, out came the recipe book this morning and I gathered the ingredients for Naan bread. Mixed everything together as per instructions, and then threw in some extra milk because it all looked a little lumpy. Big mistake. When I then embarked on the kneading phase, which was meant to involve the elegant stretching and mixing of the dough, everything just stuck to my fingers and I looked like a sticky version of Edward Scissorhands. After much cursing, I had to be rescued by the wife who gave me one of those “why did I marry this idiot with dough encrusted hands” looks.
Dough sorted and we were tidying up while the dough did it’s miracle rising thing.
I thought you said there was salt in the recipe, said she.
Indeed I did and indeed there is, said I, somewhat condescendingly.
This is sugar, said she, waving a little box that had obviously served to provide an ingredient.
Oh fuck, said I.
Indeed, said she, somewhat condescendingly.
But I persevered to the end of the process and what came out of the oven looked a little like Naan bread and tasted pretty good too.
All I need now is the Magic Roundabout book of curry recipes and I will have a complete meal, even if it does end up looking like a dog turd.
- Copyright Eddie Izzard, explaining how the Spanish Inquisition torture sessions would have been conducted had they been run by the Church of England.
Comments 🔗
2008-06-24| Jock saysOne good favour deserves another. I trust you will spend as much time on honing your cokking skills as you do hoing your driving skills on your playstation x-box or whatever. Enjoy
http://www.dummies.com/WileyCDA/DummiesArticle/Getting-to-Know-Thai-Ingredients.id-1738.html
2008-06-24| Jock saysOh dear .. I meant cooking .. I must have been in Bangkok too long ….
2008-06-24| Spike saysPerhaps you could privately send me a link to site that will help me improve my cokking skills?