Tag Archives: cooking

1421. Memorable and happy day

Trudi had made an extensive grocery list. She was going to make sure that today would be both memorable and happy. She was going to prepare a special meal. Her husband of eleven years had suggested it. Just the two of them. There were no children. Trudi had hoped for a family but Archie had said no.

Anyway, this was to be a celebration for no reason. It’s good, said Archie, to do that now and again. It was easy to say, thought Trudi, but she was the one who had to do all the work; all the cooking. Hence the long shopping list.

When she got home from the shops she had to make several trips from the car to the kitchen to carry all the food. Archie was watching the sports on tele. Trudi began to put things away in the cupboards before beginning her baking. Then she remembered. How could have she forgotten? But forget she had.

She had forgotten to get the arsenic for the pie. That was the one thing that was going to make her day both memorable and happy.

1105. At a pinch

Claudine McPherson came up with a plan. Now that her two children had started secondary school she had got herself a “proper” job. There simply wasn’t time to cook.

“There’s little time to cook every day,” said Claudine, “so we’re going to take turns: me, Dad, Sonia, and Benny.”

When it came to Benny’s turn to cook, he followed the recipe assiduously. It was ground meat, and mashed potatoes, and green beans. The recipe for the meat said “Add a pinch of cayenne pepper.”

“My word!” exclaimed Claudine. “That pinch of cayenne pepper does wonders!”

The next time Benny cooked he added a tablespoon of cayenne pepper to make it extra nice.

948. Two potatoes

948spuds

Esmé always cooked two potatoes; a large one for her husband and a smaller one for herself. Her husband told her that it was unnecessary to cook him a large potato. A smaller one was adequate.

So Esmé cooked two smaller potatoes next time, and when they were served her husband took both of them.

406. World famous cook

406cook

Samira was a world-renowned cook. What people wouldn’t do to be trained by her? But she took only one student a year.

But now! Oh! The excitement! Samira was to train twenty! TWENTY! At once! And in front of television cameras! Hundreds of aspiring chefs applied.

The twenty were chosen from a variety of backgrounds. They could already cook well, but nothing like Samira could cook. They were prepared to hang on her every word. As Norman from New Brunswick said, “I’m prepared to skin and gut a rabbit if she asks, and to blanch its testicles.” All felt the same.

The first day dawned. The course was to last a week.

Samira sent each student to stay with a different family. Each family had children aged from six to seventeen. The budding chefs had to cook dinner, and prepare breakfast and school lunches, and bake. They had to do this as well as pick the children up from school, and help with homework, and do the laundry, and clean the house, and go to work each day for eight hours, and…

“I want to learn to cook,” wailed the students. “This is not cooking. We’re being used.”

The teenage boys of the placement families were especially disgruntled. Why weren’t they being fed properly? Nineteen of the twenty student chefs didn’t last the week.

“If you finished the week,” said Samira to the sole surviving student, “you can do anything. You’re my student for the year. Now, let’s begin!”

99. Fish Curry

99curry

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.”