16. Roasting

My old man is incredibly intelligent, in a pragmatic, logical and methodical way. He likes facts, statistics and numbers and engages in a startling amount of research before making any decision. He has worked in property since he was 20.

My mother’s intelligence is diametrically opposed to his, and she had always enjoyed reading, learning languages, writing and finding creative solutions to problems at work. This creative flair is apparent in her cooking, as she produces fantastically colourful and tasty meals.

In the early 90’s my father took a voluntary redundancy from his long term job of 25 years. This allowed him to take a welcome break, renovate the family home and indulge in new hobbies. One of these proposed hobbies was cooking, and as my mother was working full time, it seemed to be beneficial for everyone.

And thus began a bright new era, in which my father would cook the family meal each and every day, to a blissfully enthusiastic and grateful family. The world class cuisine would undoubtedly delight our taste buds, causing sensory overload and keeping us in a state of ecstasy until the final mouthful of the daily three-course extravaganza had been consumed.

My father, being a slightly obsessive and paranoid gentleman, was fearful of getting food poisoning from undercooked food. He is also very old school in his approach, favouring traditional meat, vegetable and potato combinations, without gravy or sauce. Fine, I thought, the meat may be 'well done' as part of a simple arrangement, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be nutritious and delicious, and I kept a clear and open mind.

One the first day of my father’s exciting new cooking career, I entered the kitchen.

“What’s for tea then Dad?” I asked, expectantly.

“Chicken with peas, carrots and boiled potatoes” he replied.

Chicken with peas and carrots! I thought to myself, how exciting! I imagined glazed vegetables, creamy and cheesy mash potato and succulent chicken breast with a white wine and mushroom sauce.

I sat down in anticipation at the table ready to tuck into this mouth-watering plate of heaven, thrilled by the prospect of my father creating exuberant new meals every day.

My father placed the plate in front of me. The chicken looked like a heavily roasted leather boot on a plate, potatoes that had got pissed and beaten up in a bar fight, and vegetables that were so shrivelled they were practically sub-atomic.

Over the subsequent two years my father insisted on cooking every day, but sadly his abilities as a chef remained questionable. I mastered the fine art of smothering and disguising the bland taste with heroic doses of lurpack butter and tomato ketchup.