On Friday Making up for lost time in the kitchen
BACK when I was at school, there was no choice when it came to the practical lessons we did once or twice a week.
I made a succession of useless things in woodwork, and eventually managed a smart tool box with proper metal hinges, a leather strap handle and foam inserts to cushion the tools inside.
It was the only useful thing I ever made, though, and it only succumbed to the relentless march of time a couple of years ago.
It was a sad moment when I heaved it over the rim of the wood and timber skip at the tip, but it had to go.
On reflection, though, I would have been much better off spending my time learning to cook.
I nearly got into trouble the other day when I spotted in a store a small oven, worktop and utensils designed for children to play with.
It would, I suggested, be great for the grandchild, at which point Mrs H fixed me with a steely glare and asked if I was being sexist.
Not a bit, I said. Everyone should have one. More boys should have been given the chance to cook and more girls the opportunity to do metalwork decades ago.
At school, there was always a bit of jealousy that the girls were taking cakes and biscuits home in air-tight containers at the end of the day on a Thursday.
Meanwhile, I would get on the No 120 bus clutching something that resembled a bunch of sticks roughly glued together.
Somebody would ask: “What is it?” “It’s a magazine rack,” I would reply, holding the wonky creation up to the light and examining it from various angles.
Mum and Dad would thank me graciously and put Motor Sport, Family Circle and the Radio Times in there for a while, until it fell apart altogether and was discreetly dropped into the bin.
I was never destined for engineering or anything remotely practical, despite the best efforts of my very patient woodwork teachers.
I never did metalwork at all. I imagine the prospect of me using things like lathes and sharp cutting tools was discussed around the staff room table and a cross was placed in a box somewhere.
By the time my peers had moved on to technical drawing and going over to Torquay in the minibus to look at and prod the rudimentary computer that took up most of a room at South Devon Technical College, I had been quietly directed into the stream where we discussed 19th century French literature and argued about global politics.
“Horse for courses, Guy,” as a tutor once said to me, “horses for courses”.
But now I’m cooking, and I wish I had done more of it years ago.
Every now and then, Mrs H and I treat ourselves to one of those big cardboard boxes of ingredients that comes delivered to your door with recipe cards.
Following the instructions and trying not to set the house on fire, I fry and I sauté, I zest and I press and I season to taste.
I know what chipotle is, even if I don’t know how to pronounce it. I know the difference between soured cream and crème fraîche.
I have discovered dukkah, and katsup manis.
I know how to cook rice without it all sticking together in one impenetrable clump at last.
Nobody has become ill thus far, after eating anything I have made. I wish I had done it before.
‘Nobody has become ill thus far, after eating anything I have made. I wish I had done it before’