Diary of a home bird
PEOPLE say cooking is therapeutic. Some spend hours trying out new methods, new ingredients and new appliances in an effort to pull together a mouth-watering feast.
I, on the other hand, see cooking in a more chore-like way. I wish I was passionate about it like the rest of my siblings, but I just don’t have the flair for it. (In saying this, one of my siblings once put olives in a fruit salad.)
It’s a little strange that I’m not in love with cooking, considering I did spend a year working as a chef de partie in the heady days of my early 20s.
Like the bad workman, I too blame my tools (okay, the roomies’ tools), harbouring fond memories of that professional kitchen where everything was at my fingertips (and someone else did the washing up).
Sometimes though, the mood does strike, and I make a burst for the supermarket buying everything from lime leaves to quinoa (still not sure how to pronounce it), thinking I’m going to be the next Nigella Lawson.
Recently, I got a real hankering for Italian food. In an effort to be healthy I Googled a recipe so I could cook the meal from scratch. None of those readymade sauces.
Two hours later, after a lot of tasting, seasoning and more tasting, the dish was complete, a big pot of spaghetti and meatballs. I was dead proud of myself and even cooked enough so the boyf could enjoy some more for his lunch the following day.
Now I don’t mean to toot my own horn or anything, but damn they were good, and the boyf’s empty plate gave the seal of approval.
After the clean up I wrapped up a plate and left it on the counter for the following day.
The next morning, I called out to the beloved boxer, Betty Boo, and put some nuts in her bowl … only to discover some recognisable traces of a ‘bolognese-like’ substance on the rim of said bowl.
I looked at Betty, and she peered up at me with a happier face than usual. Something was up, but I said I’d let the truth come out in good time. At lunchtime I got a text from the Boyf, ‘I have a confession’. I replied ‘I know what it is’, and I explained my CSI investigation to him.
He came clean and explained that in a rush that morning he picked up the plate letting the meatball sauce pour out the side and onto the floor. Turning around to pick up a cloth to rectify the problem he caught Betty’s puppy-dog eyes staring back at him through the window and well, you know the rest.
In an attempt to gain some sympathy he texted, ‘And now I’m starving’. As you can imagine, there was definitely no sympathy served up.
There we were, both at our respective workplaces, and not so much as a sandwich between us, and Betty at home having eaten like a queen.
That evening the boyf called to the house for dinner and laying out the plates of roast beef with all the trimmings, the female roomie enquired if Betty would be joining us for dinner.
Watch out Paulo Tullio, there’s a new food connoisseur in town.
In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old still living with her parents.