A CULINARY AWAKENING

Pandora Sykes hasn’t always been a cook – as her poor dinner party guests will attest - but now it’s time for her to improve the menu

It’s time for a new menu, says Pandora Sykes, much to the relief of her dinner party guests

“I REPLACED MEALS WITH CHOCOLATE”

At the age of 20, I discovered a love for hosting dinner parties. With my university friends crammed around the rickety Ikea table, I’d swan around our grubby terraced house administering glasses of Sainsbury’s Basics Rosé Table Wine while clad in a Luella dress, bought cheap from ebay because it had a rip on the boob.

Post-graduation, I moved to London and the tradition continued: a dinner party at whatever flat I was living in, every Thursday night, before a spot of West London clubbing later on. (And, yes, I’m tired even writing that.) There was nothing chic about these events, but everyone always had a great time. What they didn’t have – and I know this because it was articulated to me, in “jest”, at regular intervals – is delicious or even decent food. “Do you remember when you cooked the prawns?” my friend Henry asked me recently, in horror. I didn’t recall what I had done to the prawns. But everyone else did.

There is no singular reason why I was a crappy cook. Like many things, it was a manifestation of myriad life experiences and personality traits. I never learned to cook at home, because I went to boarding school aged 11 and home economics, for some daft reason, wasn’t on the curriculum. When I went to university, I frequently replaced meals with chocolate bars. I hated the time it took to cook a meal. I am ruthlessly efficient to the point of impatience. I recall a friend of mine, trying to work out how I read as much as I did each week. “I’ve got it!” she said one day. “While I’m at the farmer’s market, or spending time making dinner, you’re reading.” It’s true. I was.

Then, about 18 months ago, something changed.

I got sick of wasting money on takeaways, or queuing for hours in the dreaded post-commute Tesco queue, every single night, because I hadn’t planned ahead for dinner.

My husband was a terrible cook – yes, even worse than me; he once bought me cottage cheese instead of mascarpone for a cake I was attempting to bake, “because it’s the same thing” – so I couldn’t rely on him for nutritious meals. And I was realising that I had to eat better. I was sick of sugar highs, of feeling bloated because I ignored the triggers for my IBS. I’d like to say that it had nothing to do with the often eye-rolly foodie culture that has exploded in the last few years, with all its chia seeds, turmeric and lean greens – but perhaps this notion of “wellness” did pervade, in some form. Mostly, I think I grew up.

I STARTED SLOW, ROADTESTING A FEW SIMPLE, NOT-PARTICULARLY-CLEAN-EATING BUT DELICIOUS RECIPES

at my weekly dinner parties. Lorraine Pascale’s sweet and sour pork balls; Hemsley + Hemsley’s courgetti with beef ragú; black pepper chicken with Nigella’s Asian slaw. I rehashed a few variations of my childhood favourites, delighted when they turned out edible: chicken noodle soup, anyone? As a pleasing offshoot of my own efforts, my husband’s cooking improved, as he developed a tiny roster of simple but tasty meals, including an excellent spaghetti bolognese. And I discovered Ocado, my most treasured luxury of all, which could ensure that I always had shortcuts to quick, healthy snacks and mini meals in my fridge. Nourishing myself and my loved ones became a pleasure.

That said, some habits die hard. Pesto eaten straight out the jar with a teaspoon will always be a treat. But I now know this for what it is: a decadent snack and not a main meal. For me, or any of my poor guests.