FOOD Deborah Ross
OK, the game's up. I admit it. I don't know anything about food. Worse, I like salad cream. Sometimes, even, I yearn for salad cream and can feel quite faint for the lack of it. When, recently, Heinz said they were about to stop producing salad cream something ludicrous to do with it not quite fitting into the condiment culture of the new millennium — I had to be talked down from the ledge. You may, actually, have seen this as it was broadcast quite exten- sively on SCN — Salad Cream News — a special, subscription-only satellite channel for people totally fed up with CNN, which rarely covers salad-cream issues in any meaningful depth, if at all. OK, the game's up. I admit it. I don't know anything about food. Worse, I like salad cream. Sometimes, even, I yearn for salad cream and can feel quite faint for the lack of it. When, recently, Heinz said they were about to stop producing salad cream something ludicrous to do with it not quite fitting into the condiment culture of the new millennium — I had to be talked down from the ledge. You may, actually, have seen this as it was broadcast quite exten- sively on SCN — Salad Cream News — a special, subscription-only satellite channel for people totally fed up with CNN, which rarely covers salad-cream issues in any meaningful depth, if at all.
When it comes to food, I just can't seem to get anything right. I can go to Tesco and spend £100 and still have nothing for supper. How does that happen? And cooking? Well, I failed the practical of my home economics 0-level because no one told me you had to cut a cauliflower up for cauliflower cheese. Mine looked like a nuclear test-explosion in the Pacific. The last time I really made an effort was for my son's fourth birthday when I stayed up until 4 a.m. — 4 a.m! — to make him a football cake, complete with green icing and little Subbuteo men. However, it was worth it. Indeed, he was so thrilled when he saw it that he burst into tears and said, `But, mummy, I wanted a Power Ranger one from Tesco.' I wouldn't have minded so much but it did taste absolutely terrible. You know that thy, polystyrene stuff flower arrangers use? It tasted like that stuff looks as if it might taste. And, do you know, I am going on 40 and I have never, ever had a dinner party. Until now.
I want to learn to cook. Truly, I do. I do get fed up with salad cream on Sunblest, scrummy as it is. I want to be able to cook, and have people over who say, 'This is won- derful. You must give me the recipe' and, `Might we just watch the final bulletin on SCN before we go?' So, I will have a dinner party. I will even buy a cookbook. But whose? Well, being a child of the TV age, I will choose a TV chef. But which?
Delia? Too mumsy. Dresses like a lady cellist. Ainsley Harriott? Ohhhhh, what am I like? Annoying! Shove off! Gary Rhodes? Will someone please, please tell him that his increasingly absurd, sticky-up hair-do is moronic, not postmodern ironic. That somewhere along the line he's not only lost the plot, but also the 'post' and `derv' and T. Nigella Lawson? Too scarily perfect. Wears pale pink cashmere sweaters, I bet, and washes things according to their wash- ing instructions, rather than bunging every- thing in and hoping for the best. Jamie Oliv- er? Yes, Jamie Oliver. He's the 'in' chef at the moment, isn't he? His second book, The Return of the Naked Chef, is topping all the bestseller lists. OK, he is a bit weedy. OK, I wouldn't fancy his chances in an arm- wrestling contest with, say, Clarissa Dickson Wright. (But, then, I wouldn't fancy Mike Tyson's chances in an arm-wrestling contest with Clarissa Dickson Wright.) But he does have bee-stung lips and a spiral staircase, and that's enough to do it for me.
So I get the book, then invite my guests. These are my Uncle Derek, a 70-year-old intellectual and George Eliot scholar who is kept awake at night by such questions as Was Daniel Deronda circumcised?', and his wife, Jessy, who is younger than me, and their son, Jonah, who is eight. I know I've cheated a bit here. I know they will not be especially tough critics. Derek might even have no tastebuds whatsoever. Once, when I was a kid and he was staying with our fami- ly, I remember coming downstairs one morning and discovering him making a fry- up from leftover mash, cabbage and Christ- mas pudding. 'If I recall rightly, it was jolly nice,' he says now. And Jessy? Well, the last time she entertained, she pulled out the extension leaf on her kitchen table and maggots wriggled out. This wouldn't have been so bad, but the guests were assembled and ready to sit down. And that wouldn't have been so bad, but one of those guests was my mother, a woman whose own hygiene standards are such that she can't settle to watch EastEnders if she thinks that the draining board in the kitchen needs a wipe. She was very good, though. She just `Look! GM seeds.' ran from the house, weeping and screaming. Jessy and I agree that, in terms of humiliat- ing experiences, this one is up there with going to the hairdressers and being told you have nits. NOT THAT THIS HAS EVER HAP- PENED TO EITHER OF US, YOU UNDERSTAND!
I'm not sure I wholly like Jamie Oliver's book, actually. There is a phoney, matey undercurrent that I find quite irritating. For example, 'If you can crack one of those two [pasta or risotto], then your mates are gonna think you're a bit clever.' But the recipes look fine and I eventually find exactly what I'm looking for on page 174. This is 'braised five-hour lamb with wine, veg and all that' which is described as 'a real trouble-free dinner. There's barely any preparation.' Yup, that's the one. And pud- ding: I'm going to do page 252, which is like an apple sponge, only made with nec- tarines, and is called, for some unexplained reason, 'Sheila's pudding'.
I start chopping and whisking at 2 p.m. I had figured that, by 3 p.m., I'd have every- thing prepared so I wouldn't have to miss Blue Peter or Scooby Dooby Doo or any- thing. But, come 4 p.m., I am still chopping and beating and peeling. My son, eight, is perplexed.
`What are you doing, mum?'
`Cooking.'
'Why?'
`Because that's what mummies do.'
`Really?'
You must remember that this is the boy who, when it was his turn to 'cook' in the `home corner' at nursery school, picked up the plastic telephone and dialled for a pizza. 'But you are going to miss Scooby Doo,' he continues. 'Tell me what happens,' I reply heroically.
My guests arrive at 6.30 p.m., by which time I am wholly exhausted; by which time I don't really want guests. Still, I am gracious- ness itself. 'I've been cooking all bloody day so you'd better sodding like it!' The lamb, which was braised on a low light in the oven for five hours with thyme, rosemary, bay, bacon, a bottle of white wine and lots of vegetables, is absolutely delicious, very ten- der, falls off the bone. Great success. The pudding is perfectly decent, too, although the kids don't like it. 'Too slimy,' they say, before leaving the table to have urgent dis- cussions about Pokemon for the 768th time. Derek has 47 helpings of everything. Jessy asks for the recipe! After they've gone, I curl up happily in front of SCN. I might buy myself a pink cashmere sweater. I might, even, try not to ruin it in the wash.
Jamie Oliver, The Return of the Naked Chef, is published by Michael Joseph (£20). Was Daniel Deronda circumcised? The question is irrelevant because George Eliot writes symbolically.'
Previous page
