Mum’s pancakes are rubbish

…according to my youngest children.

Which is why every year they come to my house for tea on Shrove Tuesday because my pancakes are “the best”, I am a “Sensei of Cooking” or “The King of Cooks” (depending on their precise mood). Recently my daughter started badgering me to open a restaurant.

It’s true that I can cook and did the bulk of it in both my marriages. I can whistle up a fair rendition of most cuisines and liked to play a game where one of my gfs would pick something out of a cookbook and challenge me to produce it. Every now and then I’ve been inspired to create crazy intricate gateaux from scratch.

But mostly I don’t. I do when the kids visit but when it’s just me I get lazy. I eat toast. Cheese. Apples. Breakfast cereal. Golden Wonder “Cheese Moments”. Bacon sandwiches. And bags of mini chocolate croissants. Soup if I feel adventurous. Cooking for one just doesn’t inspire me.

When my children start making their appreciative noises, I half-wish I was big enough to say oh no, your mum’s cooking is great, it’s just different etc. Especially as I know that when they aren’t there, I can’t be bothered.

I don’t. I nod and say “yeah, well she can’t be good at everything.” I suck up the praise and gloat a little.

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One thought on “Mum’s pancakes are rubbish

  1. Pingback: Guinea Pig Man | edgeofthebellcurve

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