Well the first thing I regret I suppose is that I’m crap at it. It annoys me, because I sort of enjoy it, and like to think I am bloody ace at it. Because I am either a) frighteningly optimistic or b) a narcissist, I am of the opinion that I can do anything I turn my hand to.
So when I attempt to knock together a humble Victoria Sponge, following the recipe to the letter and envisaging a deep, light, fluffy sponge upon which to spoon delicious whipped cream and strawberry jam before a-topping with a second deep, light, fluffy sponge and then decorating with light pink frosting and sprinkles as per a Pinterest post, picturing myself modestly offering my daughter a slice of my special home-made cake so that she might lovingly regard her Mother as a sweet, homely lady who makes her lovely treats and is really Mumsy, but instead……..my sponges don’t rise and actually what I end up with is two flat, hard, greasy, dense placenta type things which might well be more useful in adding a couple of extra kilos to a weightlifters dumb bells.
The other thing that annoys me about cooking is my sister. My sister, is an incredible cook. She is regarded as the Delia Smith of the Kavanagh family and is forever talking about her latest recipes, what she’s knocking up for her partner for supper (dishes which would challenge Gordon Ramsay) and her curries are DIVINE (says my Mother, hmph). However, my sister can’t sew AND I CAN so there.
Things I can cook quite well:
Roast Dinners (but not beef)
Unfortunately, the thing about Autumn is that it really makes me want to cook things. As soon as the temperature drops, I go all nesty and start imagining myself cosying up in the kitchen wearing a pinny (I don’t even own a pinny), flouring up the work surface ready to roll out some homemade pastry ready for a hearty apple pie (made using apples picked from a local orchard). In fact, I shall make a few pies and freeze them. And then I shall make some lovely stews using Pinterest slow-cooker recipes which are written by people from Virginia, USA who all have gorgeous kitchens, bursting with apple pies and stews and all kinds of hearty home cooked food. Like them, I shall also start bottling my own ketchup.
I won’t bottle ketchup as it happens, because I don’t have any tomatoes (in my garden) because, well, I don’t actually have a garden. I have a fridge, and even if I go and buy enough tomatoes for ketchup, they will eventually go mouldy because I shall forget about making ketchup. I shall be too busy scraping the sponges out of the baking tins and crying into my glass of gin.
This is the truth of my cooking fantasy – what starts out as a wholesome effort to deftly produce some home cooked fare in a nice neat kitchen and with minimum effort is, in reality me covered in flour with bits of pastry in my hair and my hair in the pastry, shit all over the floor, clothes covered in bits of apple, apple peel EVERYWHERE, a useless assembly of tins which are incorrect in size and depth, me getting about 30 minutes into it and starting to swear and get cross, then resorting to alcohol. And then forgetting to switch the oven on. And then forgetting to switch the oven off……..
Maybe if I just sew my sister some pinnies, she might bake me some apple pies………?