Cookery Lessons or How to Poison the Parents ©
By
Michael Casey
My small daughter just brought home some biscuits from school, why she can’t just buy them from the shop instead of baking them I just don’t know. I suppose it’s called Cookery Lessons, or How to Poison the Parents lessons. It all depends on how good or bad a chef your daughter is, though nowadays boys do cookery too. The wicker basket carried gracefully on the arm, or manfully on the arm as your child goes to school, ingredients at the ready. You await with stomach pump and painkillers at the ready, as well have having stocked up on toilet paper. You are a parent you have to be ready for anything, you are not Royalty with many flunkies to help you.
Luckily my small daughter is a good cook, she has inherited that from my wife, though Chinese cuisine is never on the menu, other hot and spicy food from the East but not so much Chinese per se. Today we have cookies on offer, and I can remember Andy Williams saying to that Bear, you cannot have a cookie, not now,not ever, NEVER. He’d be really taken to task if he treated the Bear like that nowadays, 1960s to 2018, a lot has changed. And people are in a straightjacket of political correctness now, Robots have Human Rights too, will we be baking for CP3O next?
But I digress, normally at the last minute a daughter will ask for strange ingredients last thing the night before the cookery lesson. So mum or dad will have to stop watching Come Dine with Me, and put on their wellies and big warm poncho with plastic coverings on top, to splash about in the rain to get vanilla flavouring from the all night Turkish shop. Thank God for Turkey you say as you splash home, stopping for a trusty kebab on the way home.
You toss the vanilla at the small child, then an argument breaks out as to why you didn’t bring back chocolate for your child. You just don’t love your child otherwise you would have brought chocolate home. So you smile and throw your soaking clothes at the child. Hang these up or I’ll eat the vanilla with my kebab. Silence. A child would be shamed if she did not have all the ingredients, so you the parent have won, for today. So you finish your kebab as you watch Come Dine with Me. Your neighbour the bald headed gay man comes second, if he knew how to may a good kebab a la vanilla then he might have come first.
The next day your child is sneezing, not as a result of putting your wet clothes away, but because she got soaked on the way to school, she only had an umbrella against the deluge. The waterproofs grannie gave her for Christmas are not cool enough, so she never wears them, preferring to catch colds,but staying cool.
So she greases her bowl and sneezes into it too, for good measure, and continues to mix her ingredients. And is the vanilla added to the mixture? No,she left it on top of the fridge at home, so she in vanillaless. Nobody notices as they are trying to avoid the snot frying from her nostrils. Forget 21 or 42 or 64 or any number of gun salutes for the new Royal Baby, Shakespeare Windsor, no they have flying snot from a child who does not accept grannie’s love via waterproofs. The Queen was all wrapped up today as she rode her horse, if only our errant child did the same.
So everybody elbows everybody else to get to the electric hob in the school cookery room. Gas is not used, such sacrilege, but its safer or so they say. Cookery teachers cannot put their head in the oven in despair when brownies are not as they should be. Besides its easier to clean an electric cooker than a gas. Speaking of gas, the child did manage to steal the last of mom’s kebab before the cat got it, so now the next day is very gaseous, everybody thought it was a gas leak, only they cook on electric.
Thus the small child is given plenty of space to use the stove the most, and thus her brownies are fantastic, even with the added snot which lined the mixing bowl. Not that she’ll tell mum that. She’ll just bring them home and put them on a bowl next to a piping pot of tea. Mum really likes them. It must be the vanilla she bought in the dark of the night from the Turkish shop. The small child smiles triumphantly, as she sneakily pours the vanilla into the cat’s bowl, she does not want mum to find out that she left it on the fridge, after her going out in the cold and rain the night before.
So all’s well that end’s well as my mate Shakespeare might say, the writer Shakespeare, not Shakespeare Windsor the new Royal baby. But for one thing, the child has a bad cold, so only grannie’s horrid medicine will do. So the child is forced fed the medicine. Luckily she has her own cake and she can eat it, to take the spoonfuls of medicine taste away.
By
Michael Casey
My small daughter just brought home some biscuits from school, why she can’t just buy them from the shop instead of baking them I just don’t know. I suppose it’s called Cookery Lessons, or How to Poison the Parents lessons. It all depends on how good or bad a chef your daughter is, though nowadays boys do cookery too. The wicker basket carried gracefully on the arm, or manfully on the arm as your child goes to school, ingredients at the ready. You await with stomach pump and painkillers at the ready, as well have having stocked up on toilet paper. You are a parent you have to be ready for anything, you are not Royalty with many flunkies to help you.
Luckily my small daughter is a good cook, she has inherited that from my wife, though Chinese cuisine is never on the menu, other hot and spicy food from the East but not so much Chinese per se. Today we have cookies on offer, and I can remember Andy Williams saying to that Bear, you cannot have a cookie, not now,not ever, NEVER. He’d be really taken to task if he treated the Bear like that nowadays, 1960s to 2018, a lot has changed. And people are in a straightjacket of political correctness now, Robots have Human Rights too, will we be baking for CP3O next?
But I digress, normally at the last minute a daughter will ask for strange ingredients last thing the night before the cookery lesson. So mum or dad will have to stop watching Come Dine with Me, and put on their wellies and big warm poncho with plastic coverings on top, to splash about in the rain to get vanilla flavouring from the all night Turkish shop. Thank God for Turkey you say as you splash home, stopping for a trusty kebab on the way home.
You toss the vanilla at the small child, then an argument breaks out as to why you didn’t bring back chocolate for your child. You just don’t love your child otherwise you would have brought chocolate home. So you smile and throw your soaking clothes at the child. Hang these up or I’ll eat the vanilla with my kebab. Silence. A child would be shamed if she did not have all the ingredients, so you the parent have won, for today. So you finish your kebab as you watch Come Dine with Me. Your neighbour the bald headed gay man comes second, if he knew how to may a good kebab a la vanilla then he might have come first.
The next day your child is sneezing, not as a result of putting your wet clothes away, but because she got soaked on the way to school, she only had an umbrella against the deluge. The waterproofs grannie gave her for Christmas are not cool enough, so she never wears them, preferring to catch colds,but staying cool.
So she greases her bowl and sneezes into it too, for good measure, and continues to mix her ingredients. And is the vanilla added to the mixture? No,she left it on top of the fridge at home, so she in vanillaless. Nobody notices as they are trying to avoid the snot frying from her nostrils. Forget 21 or 42 or 64 or any number of gun salutes for the new Royal Baby, Shakespeare Windsor, no they have flying snot from a child who does not accept grannie’s love via waterproofs. The Queen was all wrapped up today as she rode her horse, if only our errant child did the same.
So everybody elbows everybody else to get to the electric hob in the school cookery room. Gas is not used, such sacrilege, but its safer or so they say. Cookery teachers cannot put their head in the oven in despair when brownies are not as they should be. Besides its easier to clean an electric cooker than a gas. Speaking of gas, the child did manage to steal the last of mom’s kebab before the cat got it, so now the next day is very gaseous, everybody thought it was a gas leak, only they cook on electric.
Thus the small child is given plenty of space to use the stove the most, and thus her brownies are fantastic, even with the added snot which lined the mixing bowl. Not that she’ll tell mum that. She’ll just bring them home and put them on a bowl next to a piping pot of tea. Mum really likes them. It must be the vanilla she bought in the dark of the night from the Turkish shop. The small child smiles triumphantly, as she sneakily pours the vanilla into the cat’s bowl, she does not want mum to find out that she left it on the fridge, after her going out in the cold and rain the night before.
So all’s well that end’s well as my mate Shakespeare might say, the writer Shakespeare, not Shakespeare Windsor the new Royal baby. But for one thing, the child has a bad cold, so only grannie’s horrid medicine will do. So the child is forced fed the medicine. Luckily she has her own cake and she can eat it, to take the spoonfuls of medicine taste away.
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