Do you remember your mum buzzing around the kitchen preparing your meals? She might have had a notebook of recipes to refer to, with bits of torn paper falling out, their sellotaped edges dried out over time. My mum’s is an A4 hardback curiosity, with some recipes from her schooldays, written in ridiculously pretty old Irish, and putting my scrawl to shame. (You should see me speed type though…)
She might have had a few trusty Delia books or the whole ‘Simply Delicious’ series from Darina, beaming and bespectacled on each cover. But not that many books were needed. Old favourites appeared over & over, some meals appearing as if by magic, buns & brown bread churned out with muscle memory. I know different now and I reckon I was a pretty ungrateful child all told. Though I ate a lot of raw veg, a trait Dominic has picked up to my delight. The work! The work put into feeding a family and feeding them well every single day while going out to paid employment 5 days a week. I have half the amount of children my mum has, and a husband who cooks too. My dear late dad was no caveman, but porridge or a mixed grill was about the height of his expertise. I didn’t understand how she was in the kitchen so much but now, as I wipe counters at 8am and 9pm with 9 hours in the office in between I get it. Now I get it.
