NEW year, new start. 2024 here we come.
“You’re getting some lessons in cooking and basic housecraft,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Blew out a gargantuan sigh.
Cooking was not his thing, he muttered sourly. “And you don’t exactly have a PhD in housekeeping yourself.”
I gritted my own teeth. I was not to be provoked.
“Those facts are not unknown,” I said kindly.
But, I pointed out, when our house was hit by either the dreaded A(H1N1) fl7u virus, and possibly its best friend A(H3N2) the week before Christmas, it quickly became apparent that the quality of the provisions and the overall level of care fluctuated violently, depending on who was the better able to get out of bed.
So, when the man of the house was prostrate, he got light but nutritious homemade meals. Fresh water was placed by his bedside each day in a clean glass.
Dioralyte, flat 7 Up and hot tea were ferried upstairs constantly to manage dehydration, temperature control and human misery.
Trays, used mugs, empty plates and half-full glasses of water, along with miscellaneous cutlery and used vomiting basins, were immediately returned by gloved hands to the kitchen and washed in nice hot, soapy water.
Sweaty pyjamas and sheets were washed and dried and the bed neatly re-made with sweetly clean linen. The kitchen was kept clean and tidy. The laundry cycle continued. Nothing piled up - not on the sink, in the laundry basket, or on the table. The floors were clean.
However, I explained, in carefully non-judgemental tones, when, alas, the bug passed to me, the fare turned to watery tea, cold toast and mushy cornflakes.
Pleading phone calls had to be made for Lemsip and tea.
“Well, you always rang when I was right in the middle of something, like having my own breakfast,” he said grumpily.
Used cups, glasses, and bottles of water piled up on the bedside table and the floor beside the bed, which was covered in rumpled, sweaty sheets. Trays of half-eaten breakfast fare sat around. Smeared teaspoons lay where they fell.
When I finally staggered down to the kitchen, a mountain of crockery was piled up in the sink and the floor and table were littered with crumbs. We won’t mention the laundry basket.
“I didn’t want to be boiling kettles just to wash one single little cup,” he argued.
I explained that, when his turn came, he would show me how to clean out the pellet burners and how to use the big lawnmower properly and… well, I didn’t know, I said.
He knew all that side of things.
But not this side of things.
He grunted.
We started with potato wedges. He likes brown crispy potato wedges straight out of the oven, lightly salted, with plenty of pepper and sliced shallots.
I explained that first the potatoes would be cut into quarters and par-boiled before being cut thinner, tossed in a little oil, salt, pepper and sliced shallots and baked in the oven.
“I can buy those in a packet,” he objected.
I handed him four medium potatoes.
He took out a long bread knife.
“No, not that one,” I said.
He took out a very small sharp knife.
“Not that either,” I said.
I put the vegetable knife into his hand.
“This is a vegetable knife,” I said. “It is sharp. Use it to cut each potato into four large wedges.”
When I looked again, he had cut each potato into 16 extremely thin wedges, all precisely the same size.
“I said four large wedges,” I told him. Calmly.
“I don’t like big chunks,” he said in a weaselly voice.
“You can’t par-boil them so thin,” I said, “they’ll go into mush.”
Sighing, he cut up four more potatoes into large wedges.
“Too thick,” he grumbled.
“Wait,” I said.
The wedges must be brought to the boil, I explained, and allowed to cook for just a few minutes until the tip of the knife could penetrate them. Then into the colander to dry off.
Next, he would cut them thinner before tossing them in the prepared mixture of oil, pepper, salt and sliced shallots.
“God,” he said, “that’s an awful lot of work for a few uppity wedges.”
“Well,” I said, “you’ve eaten my wedges for years as a side-dish with home-made lasagne and a homemade tossed salad with home-made dressing. It’s beyond time you realised how much work goes into the good food you’ve been eating this last 30 years.”
He cut his eyes at me and stalked out to the shed, leaving the potato wedges bubbling.
“Hey,” I yelled. “You can’t walk out and leave your wedges boiling.”
He stamped back.
I handed him a big plastic bowl, the salt and pepper and a few shallots. “OK,” I said, “Prepare the mixture.”
Not enough oil, he said. Slicing shallots was codology, he said. Less salt, he said.
“This is the way you like eating them,” I observed.
“Time to test your wedges.” He rammed the bread knife into an innocent wedge. “Use the vegetable knife,” I whispered.
“Right,” I said after he’d tortured more innocent potatoes, “they’re ready.”
He tipped them into the colander, allowed them to cool, cut them thinner and all precisely the same size, then mixed them with the oil, salt, pepper and shallots.
“Right,” I said.
“Line a baking tray with tinfoil. Lay the wedges on the tinfoil and cook them for about 30-40 minutes in the oven at about 190/200 degrees and Bob’s your uncle.”
He did all that and made for the shed.
“First, set the table,” I said a bit shrewishly.
I was still flu-ey, and this was only a side dish, remember.
He flung some knives and forks onto the table. No particular order. No water glasses. No water. No placemats.
“Watch me, I said, and re-set the table.
Afterwards, he loved his wedges.
“These are the best wedges,” he said, enormously pleased with himself.
Later, I told his mother that for all his cool dude demeanour, he doesn’t take easily to direction. She laughed.
“No,” she said.” How long are ye married again?”
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