Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit...

I went out to dinner last night with a girlfriend whose husband is being detained at Her Majesty's pleasure (obviously I did not wear the Tom & Jerry dress). I had chicken liver wrapped in pancetta & served on mashed potato (delicious), followed by pan-fried duck breast with cranberry & port sauce (ordinary), and a selection of cheese with my port (uninspiring). Inevitably the conversation came around to the absence of marital intimacy that her situation unfortunately demands & her timely introduction to a battery-operated friend better aquainted with the single girl. We decided that at least one didn't have to wash the socks of her new rabbit pal, but on the down side, (sorry), it makes, I am told, a noise like a rather aggressive lawnmower. I suggested that, considering the critical nature of the issue, she might invest in some ear plugs.

Burns Night saw me dish up haggis, rich dark redcurrant gravy, red onion marmalade, bashed neeps & tatties, & peas. Obviously. And even the babies wolfed it down, although I am concerned that Smallest Son has taken to nipping like a yappy little dog, making it necessary to hold him at arm's length to evade his razor sharp new teeth, of which there are three.

On her honeymoon, my aunt decided that she would begin as she meant to go on, & as Dutiful Wife she set to the ironing with her travel iron. The absence of an ironing board in their hotel room at The Dorchester did not deter her - she laid my uncle's shirts carefully on the floor & proceeded to weld them to the carpet. Clever girl, I say. Not only did it test her new husband's ingenuity (he passed that test by moving the dressing table until it hid the charred spot in the carpet) but it ensured that he took charge of all further ironing situations that arose within their marriage. I have often thought that there should be a Husband School that men must attend by law before they are allowed to marry. At the wedding service they must present their certificate to the priest or registrar, showing that they have passed their Husband Proficiency Test, before the service is allowed to continue. But as the mother of three boys, it occurs to me that such a school already exists. It is surely the duty of parents, particularly of mums, to send our boys into the world readily equipped with the knowledge & understanding that makes for a Good Husband. It is ultimately irresponsible, selfish & lazy, not to mention an insult to feminine solidarity, to leave such educational matters to our daughters-in-law...

A Game of Cat & Mouse

When is the right time to wear a frock covered in cartoon characters? I have just bought the most fabulous vintage dress. With a hugely full skirt, it is a hand-stitched fifties number, lovingly created by another Desperate Housewife, no doubt, fifty-odd years ago. But, and this is the best bit, it is liberally sprinkled with pictures of Tom & Jerry!!

I was going to wear it at the weekend, my nephew was staying & it seemed the most appropriate garb in which to serve up dinner - Roast Chicken, Greek-style sausage & rice stuffing, three bean salad with aubergine pesto, bulgar, pitta bread, hoummus, baby plum tomatoes, lemon dressing, & later, chocolate-toffee cornflake cake - but it was not to be. I had taken the children to feed the ducks & we all arrived back frozen to the bones & in need of restorative hot chocolate. So in all the hoo-hah I forgot the dress. Too busy warming small hands & feet & noses. The next thing I knew the husband was carving the bird & I still had my muddy boots on. Oh, & by the way, there were no ducks so Middle Son ate the blue-tinged bagels I had been saving for his feathery friends.

It seems we have a thief in our midst! Trouble at mill as they say, or in this case, trouble at pub. Somebody has their fingers in the till. The Husband is determined to catch whoever is responsible & has spent much of the day cooking up ingenious trapping plans while slaving over a hot deep-fat frier. Perhaps the dress would be a good disguise if I have to go undercover & stake-out the bar. I could blend seamlessly into my surroundings incognito...

A Gingham Pinny

I would like a pinny - a proper old-fashioned apron like my grandmother used to wear, reminiscent of a 1950’s housewife, perhaps in gingham, perhaps even with a frill or a flounce. Instead I twist my hair up with a biro, roll up my cardigan sleeves, & wipe my hands on the edge of my sarong. I do not have any oven-gloves, & none of my tea-towels match.

My mother’s kitchen, as her mother’s before her, has always been the heart of the house. Homework was done at the long wooden table, where pastry was rolled, shoes cleaned, ironing folded & socks paired, first aid administered, vegetables peeled, and every meal eaten en famille. My kitchen table is littered with the detritus of daily life: my husband’s cheque book; a pair of pliers; two cigarette lighters; the baby’s orange plastic rattle; a broken pencil; my son’s glasses; a dusty jar of multi-vitamins; & the green garden string. I shove everything down to one end for breakfast, a chaotic affair as the house kicks into life; room to make the baby’s bottle and a packed lunch, for my son to eat fried eggy-bread, for my husband’s coffee & my three cups of tea, for the newspapers.

Perhaps if I had a pinny, the clutter would magically disappear. My kitchen would be like my mother’s - who incidentally wears a wipe-clean floral apron when she does not have visitors – lived-in but tidy, with only an oilcloth on the table, & place mats brought out at mealtimes. She sweeps the floor twice a day. I merely pick up the big bits of toast where the baby has thrown them, until my flip-flops crunch on the crumbs, & I am forced to sweep.

My mother’s kitchen is magnolia, with a tasteful grey & cream tiled floor. My kitchen is not. With a nod to that 1950’s housewife, I have gone for ironic pastels - mint green, baby blue - accented by unrepentant raspberry. My dresser is adorned with mismatched china, rescued from flea markets & junk shops, or liberated from student common rooms. My mother’s beautiful collection includes valuable inherited dinner services & tea sets. Her furniture is simple, country, antique, carefully collected; mine is an eclectic mixture of the functional & the free - less of the heirlooms and more of the hand-me-downs. A red rocking chair sits by the window, old chapel chairs (with a place for your hymn book) nestle under the modern pine table, a white bookcase is shedding its paint revealing a deep green undercoat.

My son’s self-portrait in the style of a Tudor lord, artistically framed in silver & gold pasta, hangs next to a gilt beribboned mirror & a string of Peruvian cow bells. An original Station clock, which doesn’t work, shares wall-space with patterned plates, dried lavender, a brass anchor with hooks for holding keys, and a wooden plaque with bright yellow sunflowers bearing the inscription “I am in the garden”. My mother, with her impeccable taste, displays a pair of Victorian pen & ink drawings of domestic life, a montage of family photographs, Seventeenth-century pewter tankards, some Emma Bridgwater pottery, and some botanical illustrations of vegetables.

But our kitchens do have three things in common. Like my mother, I have my radio permanently tuned to Radio 4. The comforting rhythm of middle-English life, the familiar smug security of a middle-class morning help me forget that I cook at a 1980’s gas stove - I can pretend I am warming matching tea-towels on the Aga while an apple crumble bakes. We both never keep tomatoes in the fridge, but in a bowl on the window-sill. And pride of place is given to a blurred photograph of my grandmother in her kitchen, wearing a gingham pinny.


Copyright © 2003 Elizabeth Maeve Bradbury

Big Brother, Little Chicken

I am struggling to find a reason to explain why I have been watching "Big Brother". I think it might be the same gruesome compulsion that makes people slow down on the motorway to view the aftermath of a car crash. It is just so uncomfortable watching people who are so uncomfortable. They are being ritually humiliated for my amusement, manipulated into situations of undue stress for my titillation. I am not sure that I want to accept the responsibility. I prefer to watch something that does not resound with the rumble of the tumbrel. I am apt to drop a stitch or two...

Before you ask, I haven't been back to the slimming club. In fact, to ease the televisual discomfort, & because the husband had a rare & welcome evening off from the pub, I cooked 'something special'. Roast poussin, herby cream cheese stuffed beneath the skin, swathed in bacon, drenched with a rich, wineful sauce... there are plenty more tomorrows for ryvita & cottage cheese.

Domestic Tensions, Good Intentions & Shepherd's Pie

It has been a busy few days. The boys, of which there are three, have had a stomach bug. My brother, who has failed his exams again, arrived requiring safe harbour & much Guinness, until it was safe to return to the family home without fear of castration. The washing machine has died - I repeat, I have three boys. The husband, who happens to be the village pub landlord, is working seven days & nights a week, because we cannot find a chef. Well, that is the current excuse. He smells of Marlboro & chips & Old Speckled Hen. I have a magazine article to finish writing about the problems of parenting in this modern sexualised climate. My eldest son (affectionately known as 'fat-face') has fallen out with his 'girlfriend' (he is eleven!), refuses to remain in class, has kicked out the bannister spindles of the main staircase, & we must go & discuss his future with the headmistress. I am ignoring the bathroom scales, but I know by the waistband on my jeans that the 'Christmas' indulgence has got to stop. It is nearly February.

The situation definitely needs taking in hand. Not the gastric disturbances, or the International Baccalaureate Board of Examiners. Not the ineffective spin cycle & final drain, or the complete absence of microwave operators in the whole of Oxfordshire. Not the British cultural preoccupation with sexual activity, or pre-adolescent heartbreak & its attendant violence. No, there is little I can do about any of these, but my expanding waistline is another matter. I can take that in hand, as it were. (Or should that be 'in handfuls'?) Tomorrow I'll go back to the slimming club. Yes, tomorrow will be the start of my new, healthy, low-fat, anti-chocolate, cheese-free, semi-skimmed life. Tomorrow.

There is only one thing for it. Shepherd's Pie. The children need something soft, that doesn't demand the exhausting effort required to chew. The brother needs something to salve a bruised ego, that doesn't leave his street-cred in tatters & prick the self-contrived bubble of 'cool'. The husband needs a chef, & something, in the style of The Waltons, to remind him just what this family life lark is all about. We all need something familiar, comforting, safe, reassuring. The gastronomic equivalent of a sticking plaster & a 'make-it-better' cuddle. Of course, Shepherd's Pie!

It wasn't really Shepherd's Pie. No shepherds were harmed in the making of this pie. It was really Cottage Pie because it was made with beef mince. (Whatever.*) And green lentils, red wine & apple sauce. And cheese. (On top of the mashed sweet potatoes). I was rather pleased, I have to say. Grunts of approval from the husband, the brother & the sons.

* A note on the use of "whatever":
Culled from the cultural oasis that is 'The Gerry Springer Show'. Implies disinterest, disbelief, dismissal, etc... Most effective when pre-empted by outstretched arm with palm at 90 degree angle facing co-conversationalist, and the words - "Talk to the hand 'coz the face 'aint listening". On no account should the 't' be sounded. Alternative spelling: "wha'evah". My cousin suggests even further vowel-shortening with her variation, "wevvah", and she should know. This is rapidly becoming the preferred version.