The Kitchen Crusader.

A dear friend of mine once remarked, as she deftly produced a tray of mouth watering muffins that "Cooking is a science. Follow the rules and success will be yours!" Well, I stunk at Science in high school and I double stink at cooking. So much so that Tokyo Gas has been known to cordon off the area around my house whenever I so much as rattle a baking tin. I`ve spent hours slaving in the kitchen, cookbook bound back in a torturous position, gleaming shiny utensils at the ready but the end result is nearly always the same. No matter how accurately I weigh out the ingredients, mix, blend, stir, whip, spoon, beat or scream at it, the end result  looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook. Okay, I hear you all say, trying desperately to be diplomatic and encouraging, the proof is in the eating. Uh, uh,I nod. But would you like to try something that looks suspiciously like a three day old turd from a terminally creature?

I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?

Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.

I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.

"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.

I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending  a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?"  I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet. 

I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.

"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!"  I sigh and reach for a wine glass.

The Great Gargle.

My body has joined ranks with my children and is rebelling against me.My brain keeps flashing lights that's it's the same ailment my kids endured very recently.....a non-specific virus.... but I am worried it could be the beginning of complete and utter organ failure.It's not that I am a hypochondriac or anything but a quick google of the Internet hit upon a few diseases matching my symptoms ,all requiring transfusions,dialysis or an emergency operation."You look like that guy off Goosebumps,Mummy,"chirps Bat Boy whizzing the curtains open, sending a torturous beam of sunlight straight onto my bed,which leaves me flailing and squirming around like some vampire from a B movie."You know..the episode where the guy gets bitten by an alien and he turns white and all his flesh starts oozing off,Mummy". Kids.You can always rely on them to tell you how it really is.No frills or delicate handling or side stepping for the meek.Kids...as subtle as a piece of bobbing poo poo in a swimming pool.And on that note,my stomach started up on it's rinse and spin cycle.

Suddenly hubby's disembodied voice "We need to clean your stomach.Get all those nasty germs out." My jaded eyeballs home onto his frame in the doorway,one hand dangling a small glass jar with two rubber tubes sprouting from either side.A seriously disturbing scene flashes through my mind.Surely he isn't going to try and perform an enema with the contraption we use to suck the snot out of the kids' blocked noses."Come on.Up you get.Let's go gargle."hubby almost sing songs. Oh yes.The great Japanese tradition of gargling.Got a cold?Gargle.Headache? Gargle. Having an aneurysm?Just gargle a bit more and you'll be right as reign in a matter of days. In fact, I am surprised it isn't advocated for pain relief during child birth or while passing gall stones.'Now come on,Mrs Watanabe.Women used to give birth in bushes out on the flat lands,you know.Never heard any of them complaining.I am sure you can manage to have at least one little gargle in between third stage labour contractions'.

"Hold it for 3 more seconds.Head back."I am sure my husband takes great delight in all of this."Well done,"he smiles."You'll be better soon.A good gargle cures all.It's just a non specific virus." I really dislike the way folk,who are fit as fiddles like to casually banter to folk,who are in the throes of agony,their whole body committing mutiny,who have just spent five of the last seven hours in a toilet without any decent reading material at hand that 'it is just a non-specific anything'.I know it's just a virus. As soon as my kids got sick,all my mummy friends called apologising in case my lot got it from their lot....basic mummy etiquette.....and after a few hours we narrowed the original outbreak down to a family living in a tiny village in eastern Germany.These things spread like wildfire amongst children.

"Just one more,"hubby grins,"And this time I've added extra salt to really finish off those germs clinging to your throat." I sigh.Some things just aren't worth arguing about.Not that I have the energy anyway."And then,I want to try a little of the octopus and onion soup I made for you"..........