One Pot

Darling Love Chunks has long since realised that he's married an utter dud in the cooking department.

Meteorology and computer programming don't always provide a huge amount of creative freedom, so he finds it instead in cooking. Saturday and Sunday mornings are given to breakfasts that poncy inner-city cafes can only dream of and the coffees he makes from scratch seven days a week are better than anything you'd perch on a teeny tiny metal outdoor table in the freezing sunshine dressed in trendy black designer gear and pay four bucks the privilege for.

Even on a 'slack' weekend brekky day he treats Sapphire and myself to ricotta hotcakes with warm berries or a spinach and fetta tart like this one:

Weeknights too, he's on the ball. Warm chicken salad, home-made pizzas (including the yeast-leavened crusts), curries, roasts, char-grilled vegetables, barbecues, a huge array pastas, stir-fries, Asian meals, casseroles, scones, soups, seafood. He sees it on telly, in a magazine picture or in a restaurant; figures out what it's likely to have in it, how it was made and simply goes for it. I can count on one hand the inedibles he's produced in (cocks head to one side, counting out loud) ........ sixteen years of togetherness. He could, quite literally, work in a restaurant and have patrons clamouring for more.

Therefore, on the roughly two-nights-per-week average that it's sort of/unspoken/assumed to be 'my turn' in the kitchen, you'd think he'd get something special.

Sadly, as you can see from this One Pot Dahl with Added Veges Found In the Crisper, Thrown In and Boiled For Several Hours Because I Forgot About It, he's constantly disappointed. He walks in after a long day at work and a heart-pounding bike ride home only to smell what could conceivably have been excreted by an angry herd of IBS-suffering elephants and says quietly - and not a little nervously, 'So, you've been cooking, have you?'

In fact, 'One Pot' is a name he occasionally calls me. And it's appropriate and deserved. Y'see, I'm all for the 'no dishes, no cleaning, no fuss' method of cooking and thus my nights tend to produce dahl, risotto (but with microwaved rice stirred in whatever sauce I've concocted in the non-stick pan, not me standing there for 20 minutes lovingly and continuously stirring the gloop); tuna mornay (yes, it still exists and I've always got a tin of corn and tuna in the cupboard), soup of any description (some of them defy description to be honest) and a mishmash/tomato-and-onion based pasta sauce that's smeared over whichever pasta is closest to hand.

He doesn't complain about these sub-standard, hastily-cooked, often-with-still-crunchy-onion offerings that are proferred but smiles politely, takes a warming slurp of red wine and bravely plows in. As does Sapphire, but she can be more vocal about what's in the bowl plopped down in front of her.

Crack - Squeak - Crack - Squeak - Crack- Squeak

"Mum what's that gritty stuff in the risotto that feels like glass?"

"Sorry love, I only gave the spinach a quick rinse under the tap but I think it's still got a bit of sand in it. Just close your eyes and pretend it's really crunchy black pepper."

"Muuuuuuum, I have tears ON TOP of my eyelids! How much chilli did you add?"
"Erm, about half a cup of minced stuff, I think. Heh Heh, I mistook it for tomato paste, a common mistake. Want another glass of water?"

Holding up a skin-coloured, droopy, noodle-shaped object on her fork:

"Is this one of those weird looking mushrooms that look like long frog toes?"

(Me, blushing profusely): "Whoops, no - give me that!"

(Sapphire staring at me as I return from the rubbish bin). "What was it?"
"Um, let's just say that Mum found the band-aid she thought had slipped off when she was showering."

So how do you become interested in cooking when, at the moment, it seems about as much fun as doing a fortnight's worth of ironing crinkled linen shirts with tissue stuck on them?

In fact I'd rather clean out Skipper the rabbit's cage (fluoro-yellow wee-soaked straw, billions of bunny beans and shredded newspaper and all), pick up Milly's poos (in nappy bags of course), hoover up the stray bathroom floor pubes and distribute our fortnight's recycling in every bin on our street after 11pm than open the fridge and pretend I'm excited, interested, challenged or intrigued about :

a) what's in there that's not coated in chocolate; and

b) how I'm going to get it from that already-uninspiring state to the dinner plate.

All I can really offer Love Chunks and Sapphire is what occurs after dinner. A hug or two, and....... Chocolate sampling! For work purposes and family harmony only, of course.