If the truth be known, Fiona wasn’t much of a cook. She knew it. She was fine by it. Some people had the cooking knack. She simply didn’t have it.
At home she cooked, for her husband and children. It was alright. Her husband was a better cook than she was. The family didn’t mind her cooking; it was edible but not flash.
When it came to Pot Luck dinners, Fiona always brought something bought. Pizza reheated. Maybe a pie. A cheese cake perhaps. Her Pot Luck friends were all great cooks. At times such as that, Fiona wished cooking was something she could do.
She spied an advertisement in the local paper: Evening classes. Once a week for a whole year. INDIAN COOKING. Why not? And she did.
Week after week she immersed herself into cooking Saag Aloo Masala, Murgh Kali Mirch, Navratan Korma, Tandoori Chicken. She became an expert. And quite good too. Her husband and children loved it! In honour of her success, Fiona planted a little curry tree, which she tended in a sunny nook of the garden.
Then it was a Pot Luck dinner. No ordinary Pot Luck. This one said, “Cook! Don’t buy!” Fiona knew exactly what to do. She made the most beautiful fish curry. In coconut cream. It smelled beautiful. It looked beautiful. Fiona was, rightfully, pleased. The trouble was, unbeknown to Fiona, no one, just no one, at the Pot Luck ate fish. They wouldn’t touch it.
Gathering her crock pot at the end of the evening, Fiona was thrilled. Not a scrap of her fish curry was left.
“Look at that!” she said to her husband. “They loved it!”
“It was delicious, dear,” he said. “I tasted a bit of it myself.”