You're not cooking are you?

Sons One and Two have decided to do some cooking, so if you don't hear from me again, think of me fondly. They're making an apple crumble, and the clean-up bill, as they say on the news after major disasters, will run into the millions. This, I believe, is their first contact with the oven since primary school. My daughter, having moved out a while ago, is rather good at cooking - regularly posting photos on facebook of steak in Stilton sauce, or similar 'Master Chef'-standard dishes. Son Number One's girlfriend is keen for him to get cooking. I see a good example of future planning there. She does keep me on my toes, though, as she's quite happy to help in the kitchen when she's here. I've had to make a hasty dash for the oven and say, 'Oh, let me! You go and sit down - I'll give you a call when it's ready!' For which she thinks I'm super kind and thoughtful, but it's actually so she doesn't open the oven and see the pizza-cheese-encrusted bottom. I will clean it. I know I've been saying that for a year or two, but it will get done...

Well, the apple crumble is out of the oven. All we have to do is open a carton of custard, and that's half of tea sorted. You'll have gathered that real cooking is not my thing. For this I blame my mother, who, when my father tentatively made a joke about home cooking, snapped, 'Okay, I'll just give up work and cook all day, shall I?' I really cannot see the point of spending hours making food that will either disappear in minutes, or be scraped in the bin with cries of, 'Why can't we just have pizza?' A male relative of mine married an amazing cook. We were talking about her once at my parents' house, over the traditional Sunday dinner of Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire puddings and five bottles of wine. My mother whispered, 'She makes her own custard...' and a silence descended as we pondered how you would even do that, let alone want to. Needless to say, she's never really fitted in...

I love this woman...

I'm hoping that my parents live to a good age, because I know I'm not ready to take on the Christmas Dinner responsibilities. The older I get, the more I can see myself as the Christmas Dinner Prince Charles. Mother's not ready to hand things over yet, so it may as well pass straight to my children. I know that instant gravy won't be acceptable, and I can barely time beans and toast to be ready together, so Christmas Dinner would just be a disaster, darling. 

Well, I'm off to the loft. The computer keyboard has a very klunky space-bar and it's irritating enough for me to get off my backside and sort it out. I must do it now before the motivation wears off.