Sunday, February 16, 2014

A chef in the making

The boy entered the kitchen yesterday while Sunday lunch was being prepared.  For all my gluttony, I am probably the primary contender for the title of the world's worst cook. I hate cooking with a passion which rivals my hatred for reptiles.
"Whachyure cooking?" he asked. The mutton curry was done, the rice was done, the rotis were done. The salad was done. The vegetable and dal was done. The cook had wiped her hands on her apron and left for the day. All that was left to be done was the bheja fry. The masala was ready, all that needed to be done was fry it all together. 
"I'll make it, I'll make it!"
I gladly handed over charge and stood by the side, filing my nails and barking instructions. He managed rather successfully and promptly took a bit of his production to his father for tasting.
"Tell me really, sachi sachi, is tasting nice?" he asked his father.
"It's nice," testified the father, with all sincerity.
The boy strutted around with chest puffed for the better part of the day.
This morning, he wandered into the kitchen again. "Whachyure making?" he asked again.
"Omelette," I replied.
"I will make," he squealed.
All that needed to be chopped, had been chopped.  He broke the eggs in, mixed them in, beat them furiously, added in a bit of salt, poured it into the frying pan, let it cook a bit, had to be physically restrained from flipping it over until it was done, and finally took it gently off the pan and into the plate.
"I made fer you brekkfass," he told his pater proudly.
My job here is done. If not Hire-a-goon, he can definitely set up shop as a chef.


  1. Hire-a-goon indeed! You go say sorry to that gem of a son of yours.

    BTW, like the new template.

  2. Sue, you are a biased aunt.