Dinner is Served

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?