I never appreciated what an outstanding cook my mother was until I had my first semi-serious girlfriend. I was 16 and had grown up eating mum’s traditional English fare, which was what my Dad preferred. Minced beef, mac and cheese, bubble and squeak, with an obligatory serving of liver every month or so. And of course, the ritual Sunday roast. With the possible exception of the monthly liver ration, meals were, while somewhat unimaginative, always tasty.
When I took up with Ali, our relationship soon reached the stage where we were routinely eating dinner at each other’s houses. After two or three meals at her place, all of which were pretty mediocre, I had a small epiphany: not everybody’s mum could cook like mine. I began to develop a whole new appreciation for good cooking, which has stayed with me for life.
A few years later, when we children had finished school and moved into a more independent way of life, mum was freed somewhat from the daily obligation of putting a dinner on the table. Rather than taking a break from the kitchen, she doubled down and enrolled in a culinary arts program at a local community college. For several months she rose very early in the morning, donned a uniform of checked trousers and white jacket, and carpooled off to the campus with a group of classmates (most of whom were half her age and possessed not a fraction of her knowledge, but with whom she was perfectly comfortable having beers on Friday afternoons). It was a very practical program: the students toiled all morning and their efforts were served to faculty and the rest of the student body in the cafeteria at lunch.
My parents had always been keen entertainers, and Mum’s new-found skills enabled her to up her dinner party game considerably. Guests were treated to all manner of exotically prepared dishes, served and presented in extravagantly elaborate ways (creative visual presentation was a keystone of the culinary arts program).
Preparing these feasts was a mammoth undertaking, but one which Mum seemed only too happy to undertake. I think she took enormous pride in not only serving her guests memorably delicious food – that had always been her forte – but now also in showcasing her outstanding presentation skills. To approach one of Mum’s buffet tables was akin to walking into an art gallery: one feasted first with the eyes.
Dad, whose kitchen skills never evolved much beyond a kipper on toast or scrambled eggs, was always eager to help, but he simply didn’t have the chops to work at the level required. What he could do, though, was shop. And so, as Mum busied herself in the kitchen, she would dispatch him with a shopping list. Dad would return an hour later with the requested items, and Mum would equip him with a fresh list, and off he’d go again. That is my recollection of party preparation days: Mum multi-tasking in her kitchen while Dad made multiple shopping trips to local supermarkets, bakeries, delicatessens and specialty stores.
Observing this at the time, I remember wondering why, given her hyper-organized approach to planning these elaborate repasts, Mum couldn’t consolidate her ingredient needs into a single list, and save Dad a lot of running around. It was only years later that it occurred to me that this was her way of making Dad feel genuinely useful and part of the process, while keeping him conveniently clear of the kitchen as she worked her magic. Brilliant, really. And kinda sweet.