Let’s do this together

Last Friday was fish and chip night as usual, except as it’s got very pricey down the chippy these days at £20 for cod and chips twice with a portion of mushy peas, we usually cook our own.

Obviously the price of a fish and chip supper may vary due to regional differences – but we do have our greedy commercial property landlords in the South to support.

And then there’s rampant inflation due to Brexit because as 18th-century workhouse owner Jacob Rees-Mogg promised, we’re paying more for our “happy” British fish.

And, of course, let’s not forget the Ukrainian war, which has doubled the price of cooking oil.

All of which means we only get a takeaway as a treat once a month, and the rest of the time it’s homemade.

But while I do all the difficult stuff – shopping, making fish batter, cutting potatoes for chips, and then risking the first three layers of my epidermis by deep-frying it all on the stove – The Dark Lord’s only job is to cook the peas.

I called her down to the kitchen last Friday evening. “Come on, I’m nearly ready. It’s time to get the peas on.”

She eventually sauntered down and I pointed to the steamer. “It’s all ready to go,” I told her helpfully.

“No I’m going to make them in the microwave,” she said, and I left her to it as she’d claimed to have made them this way before.

After about five minutes, I said as I tried to plate up, “They must be done by now, surely?”

She took the big bowl of peas out and checked, then put them back in. This happened about three times, before I finally lost patience and went to check myself.

I opened the microwave door, grabbed the bowl, which I didn’t realise was full to the brim with water, and slopped the lot all over me.

“It’s full of cold water, you halfwit!” I yelled. “That will take hours to cook in a microwave!”

I chucked most of the water out and stuck it back in on high.

“How was I supposed to know?” she yelled back at me.

“You read the bloody instructions,” I yelled even louder, getting the bag of frozen peas out to show her.

“How am I supposed to know peas come with instructions?” she yelled back.

It was all getting very heated but I was refusing to back down.

“All food comes with cooking instructions,” I trumped her, but then I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“Look, it says one tablespoon of water, not a tap-full,” I prodded the type-written instructions on the bag.

But it was too late – she was already looking triumphant. Throwing open the fridge door, she took out a tray of mushrooms. And then a bag of carrots. And finally a red pepper.

“I don’t see any cooking instructions, do you?” she said smugly, crossing her arms.

Arrrghhh. I hate living with a teenage lawyer.

■ Email me at siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or write to Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.

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Yours, Siobhan