Can't Cook, Won't Cook

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znR
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Editorial

Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook

We used to joke that she learned at the ‘Boil The Shite Out of It School of Cooking’ because everything was just left to bubble away, like a witch’s cauldron, on top of the stove.

Ellen Lynch

Sunday, 3 November 2013
10:00 AM GMT



“I don’t cook” an acquaintance of mine declared within earshot this week. Now, as someone who generally shies away from making my own shortcomings and failings public knowledge if I can help it, I pondered this utterance. Her haughty delivery though, suggested that, far from being ashamed, she was rather proud of the fact.

I didn’t waste energy trying to convince her that she was missing out. Sure, it’s a chore having to put a meal on the table every night for a family after arriving home tired from a full day’s work. But what legions of people know is that preparing a home-cooked meal can be tremendously satisfying. Why else would cook books sell so well? And cookery shows on television be so popular?

Like many people, I’m a self-taught, trial and error cook. I didn’t learn from my mother. She was accomplished in many ways, but cooking wasn't her forte. To her credit, she at least tried. Having sadly lost her mother at a young age and her older sister too, there was no-one to show her. We used to joke that she learned at the ‘Boil The Shite Out of It School of Cooking’ because everything was just left to bubble away, like a witch’s cauldron, on top of the stove.

Anything that did go in the oven came out so overdone it could have doubled as paving. Her pastry crust was like corrugated cardboard. Her bacon and cabbage was a gloopy mess, having boiled all day. To be fair to her, she soldiered away (I suppose she had to with five of us and dad to feed) and did manage one or two specialities which became firm favourites. Then there was her Christmas pudding. The best ever. I've never been able to replicate it and never had one anywhere that came close.

My mother could hardly impart skills she didn’t have, so I didn’t learn to cook from her. At school, the nuns taught us domestic science each week and every second week we got to cook. The problem was that the nun who taught us was so strict that she sucked every bit of enjoyment out of the experience. I came to hate it.

Sometimes the ingredients wouldn’t be exactly as specified in the recipe I was assigned, my mother having substituted other items for what she she didn’t have, or were cheaper, which got me into trouble. Other times it was the old unreliable ovens that were at fault. Oftentimes it was the fact that I was just so nervous and afraid of that nun that I’d be incapable of producing anything edible. I began to hate cooking.

I was unfortunate enough to have a similar experience in secondary school with the lay teacher who taught us. She held up my scones at the end of class one day and, pointing out the window to the railway station up the road said, “I could throw these from here to there and they wouldn’t lose a crumb.” I was mortified.

Like my mother, it was a case of having to cook when I got married. Armed with The Good Housekeeping Step-by-Step Cookbook, which became my bible, I launched myself, tentatively, into the world of cooking and baking. It was a revelation to me. I found that there was no hidden secret, no unknown element that I was missing. It was straightforward and could be learned by anyone.

Not everything went right all the time but I improved as I went along. Practice was key. I learned that a stew didn’t have to cook all day to taste right. I learned that roast potatoes are nicer if they’re par-boiled first then popped in the oven. Discovered that roast parsnips are delicious.

My mother’s custard used to be so lumpy that it was a case of asking if we’d like one lump or two, so I determined to make it smooth and capable of being poured. It took me four attempts one day but I mastered it and have made decent custard every since.

Baking brought even greater satisfaction. I came to love the quiet contentment of a morning or afternoon spent baking by myself, lining up the ingredients and transforming them into treats the whole family relished. There is nothing like the sense of achievement I feel when I lay out everything that I’ve baked out, and survey it all.

A memory my own children often speak of is the smell of home cooking and baking when they came through the doors after school, something I love to hear them say.

I’ve asked advice along the way. A neighbour made the biggest, most delicious scones. In comparison, mine were like biscuits. The mistake I was making was a very simple one. “Don’t roll them out so thin, the raising agent is good but it can’t work magic,” she told me. I took her advice and voila! Beautiful high, light scones.

A friend showed me the difference a light hand and cool pastry can make. My sister taught me how to make the most yummy muffins. My daughter, a talented baker who can turn her hand to anything, taught me how to make chocolate brownies so delicious that I had to stop baking them because I was eating so many!

A Spanish student that stayed in our house one year taught me an easy recipe for a lovely lemon sponge cake which has stood me in good stead for birthdays and other celebrations over the years.

I’ve also tested myself, continually trying to bake new things. I’ve turned out doughnuts, profiteroles and meringues, carrot cakes, fruit cakes and banana bread, cheesecakes of various flavours and hues. I even managed an elaborate-looking chocolate log one Christmas.

As for meals, again, I kept trying until I got things right. And, like baking, I’ve developed a few signature dishes and a full enough repertoire to make sure we don’t eat the same thing twice for a couple of weeks.

Next time that colleague declares in my company that she doesn’t cook I’m going to declare, just as proudly, that I DO.



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