Dinner
is Served ©
By Michael
Casey
Everybody
is a baker during Lockdown, it’s on the telly or BBC Bitesize, so my girls
tried to poison me the other day, and today they are trying again. Euthanize a
parent for beginners or what was the name of the Alistair Sim film, where all
the relatives are killed off in order to inherit. Go Google then go watch the
film, leave your parents alone, don’t be tempted, they don’t have any money anyway.
The
other day my small daughter tried her hand at baking, but her efforts were fell
flat, because she did not put enough baking power in, or it wasn’t self-
raising flour. Or some other excuse, as she and her bigger sister bickered. I
just left them to it and retreated to the study, or the front room if I’m not
being pretentious. It’s the nice room, the clean room where sticky fingers are
not allowed, you’ve seen the photo, though 95% of my photos are from the old
house.
Today I
decided to try my hand at cooking for them, chicken goujons, straight from a
packet, we had to eat them today because the use by date was up. Food choices
by use by date, all so very sophisticated, just like in the very best transport
cafes. I cooked them to perfection, or till my big daughter said she wanted the
oven, so we ate them. We had them with wraps, no not some guy singing and
banging on the table tops, but with wraps with a W. We had to finish the wraps
as somebody nameless did not wrap the wraps, so the edges were stale or hard.
Or just the one I selflessly ate. However, both my daughters proclaimed me a
chef, though they could just be lying to humour me, till the small print of the
insurance policy comes into force.
I
retreated triumphant to the study while big daughter dripped her mix into a baking
tray. Which could be a metaphor for what Amicci used to do with his mixers, or
was that a different kind of mixers? Then a roar rose up from the kitchen, my big
daughter’s cake mix had raised up. She told me as I came into the kitchen
looking for a banana, I do eat them not just actually pose with them on my head,
it’s in a photo if you search my sites. I couldn’t find any bananas as she had
crushed them to make banana cake, she did though leave a trail of banana skins
on the kitchen floor. The accidental death bit of the insurance policy had been
most revealing. But I left no skid marks, at least with bananas, though Totoro
our cat did come racing in and slip and slide like a figure skater. Totoro
loved it, she is a Ninja cat after all, I just smiled and wondered had my girls
seen The Adams Family Values too often.
I then
returned to the kitchen to help small daughter with a new screen protector, managing
to get stickers stuck all over me, and finally a cracked screen slapped on my forehead.
It’ll protect you dad, no doubt if I did fall over on any stray banana skins. Otherwise
her phone was now protected, but what about old dad? The cakes came out of the
oven, banana cake was like bananas, though now the raised cakes had lowered. I
said sagely they must have opened the oven door too often, to admire their
handywork. Let things rise, and don’t touch till the crust is brown. I did
watch my own old mum make fairy cake when I was a child after all.
So,
sampling a fairy cake I made my way back to the study. Though I did trip over
Totoro our cat spread like a centre fold on the living room rug, exposing her 6
nipples. Luckily, I landed on the settee, or I would not be talking to you right
now. Home baking is a very dangerous thing, so be careful out there as they
used to say in Hill Street Blues, I wonder can I find that on tv somewhere?
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