A love of food - where it all began

From satsumas in the bottom of our stockings on Christmas day to summer picnics at the beach with soggy sandwiches a plenty.

Then there was marmite on toast for five on a Sunday morning, courtesy of Dad. He always got the consistency just right and whom I now thank for my OCD, (as the other half calls it) involving it having to be cut into 4 neat, crunchy squares every time. Well, it just doesn’t taste right otherwise.

Meat wasn’t a big part of my childhood. You see, when it became the trend at school aged 10ish to turn veggie and shout “save the poor wittle haminals” over our shoulders whilst running off to play kiss chase in our Clarke’s leather shoes, things like the turkey tradition became more of an myth in our household.

The day I went home and demanded “No more meat” to a startled but rather compliant mum, myself, my sister and Mother Dear all went stark raving Soya crazy.

Poor old dad and little bro were left to look on forlornly, scouring the backs of the freezer for a forgotten fish finger whilst we girls busied ourselves experimenting with banal dishes involving split peas.

I guess you could say that my mum started me off cooking. She was definitely my inspiration, but don’t start scanning for the off button just yet, I’m not about to start harping on about “Mum’s best this” and “Mum’s best that” in a Jamie Oliver style, she just encouraged me to get off my back side and start thinking for myself.

She is a good home cook my mum, and she always had her cupboards well stocked with raw baking ingredients.

My summer six week holidays involved me locking myself away in the kitchen whilst the rest of the country watched classic Scooby Do re runs.

I would turn that kitchen upside down in an attempt to create something sweet, delicious and wonderful for when they returned from work, but I always ensured it was spotless for mother’s meticulous eye.

I was 16 when I decided to have a bash at cooking for a career and my little bro bought me my first recipe book for me to start logging my own culinary formations.

Mum and Dad bought me chefs whites and knives and packed me off to Professional Catering college where learning how NOT to chop my fingers off and how to stand up to sexist, vegetarian-ist male chefs were deemed vital learning curves amongst the pastry and silver service classes.

The years that followed brought me into contact with chefs from all around the world and I was able to happily bid a fond farewell to lentils for a while and embrace food on a broader scale.

Cooking for small parties has always appealed rather than serving record breaking numbers in one sitting. My influences over the years have gone on to influence others too. The Boyfriend, AKA “Himself” for one.

Apparently my cooking made me all the more attractive to someone who themselves could not as they say, crack an egg. However, he is talented in the singing department so cooking together usually involves cranking up the radio in a sort of “Music to Cook By” style.

I do like to muse that cooking is a little like singing. It is a combo of confidence and a lot of practice.

I insist to the many that I meet that even the most inept of our breed can muster together a few ingredients to create something simple and delectable for a few loved ones to get pleasure from.

I am not ashamed to say that Ready Steady Cook still has great magnetism in my life and I feel compelled to watch it when ever I can.

It still teaches me a lot and encourages me into the kitchen filled with ideas instead of having to root around in my mental attic for forgotten data.

I also find myself mumbling away, emulating the style and voice of Lesley Walters as I am transported to a TV studio where I too am cooking for an audience on a time limit (don’t pretend you have never done it yourselves).

Years of training myself, others, running a restaurant, and running restaurants for others has turned me from a swearing perspiring chef , screaming at half wit subordinates to fantasising about an idyllic life in the country, stirring jam and wiping icing sugar off the noses of my children (In reality replace icing sugar for snot).

I like to take my time and think about what it is I want to cook these days and then not give myself an aneurysm trying to create it.

Now we are in our (early) thirties, food has become more of an important event and we enjoy the prospect of entertaining through the manner of a dinner party.

You know, the sort of things “proper” grown ups do when the concept of clubbing until 3am, queuing for taxis and spewing on our partners shoulder on the way home fills us with dread.

We would much rather be tucked up cosily in our own home with a few people we know, and not jabbering in comprehendible dribble into the earlobes of strangers.

We assemblemakeshift tables and mismatched seating and our desire is now to enjoy food as pasttime and not just a human requirement.

After we have filled ourselves with delicious food and talked way into the night I can then lead Himself into the kitchen to help with the dishes without the aid of any sexual bribery.

It really is the simplest things in this unexplainable existence that we find ourselves in that make it all worth while.

All you need is love, and some rather nice food.