FOOD Deborah Ross

0 h, lordy lordy. It's my son's birthday this week, which means, yes . . . gulp . . . a

party. Hang on a minute, I'm just going to put on my Grumpy Old Person's Hat. Right. it's on now. It suits me, don't you agree?' I could have got it in blue, but went for yellow in the end. What do you think? I should have got the blue? Oh, great.

Cheers. Glad I asked. Hmph. And then double hmph. Which is: hmph, hmph. See? See? See what a good buy it was? Although it was criminally expensive. Honestly, the price of things today.

Anyway, now that it's on, I'd just like to say the following: kids expect so much these days, don't they? I mean, in my time it was•

one drawing-pin, six riotously unthrilling rounds of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, a pass the-parcel marathon resulting in one lucky child winning a pencil-sharpener or some other useless rubbish, and then everyone home with a bit of cake squashed into a napkin. But now? Well, I once picked up my son from a party and, as we were leaving, said, 'What do you say to Christopher's mum?'

'Urn. . . , ,' he replied, looking totally baffled.

'Come on,' I urged him, 'what do you say?'

'Oh,' he exclaimed, the penny finally dropping. He then said in a very loud voice, 'WHERE'S MY PARTY BAG?' Well, in the car on our way back, I gave him a goinghome present to remember, that's for sure.

It's called Clip Round the Ear, and is widely available from all short-tempered mothers everywhere. (Actually, you don't have to be short-tempered; you can do it just for the hell of it, and to show who's boss.) Oh, the parties I've tried. And I've tried them all. I've tried having them at home, but pretty quickly realised that this didn't amount to much beyond opening the front door and saying, 'Come in, children, and trash the house. Do! Do!' And then, 'Come on now, Oliver, enough of trying to kill the cat with a cricket bat. Fair's fair. It's Jordan's go.' One year, I even managed to hire the Clown Who Hates Children. No, I didn't know that he was the Clown Who Hates Children. He didn't advertise himself as the Clown Who Hates Children. He advertised himself as Charlie or Coco or Mr Magildco or some

thing (I can't quite remember, because I

think I've blocked a lot of this incident out). He didn't do a lot of magic, as I recall, but did shout things like, 'Go and stand in the corner!' And, Did I say it was time to put out the tea? Did I?' I haven't been as terrified in my own home since the time I felt a sort of fumbling going on in bed one night.

'Who's that?' I called out.

'It's only me.' said my partner.

'Clear off,' I said.

'I know you like your Grumpy Old Person's Hat,' he said, 'but do you have to sleep in it as well?' 'Yes. Shove off. Plus, I've got six headaches and a bad toe.'

And I haven't finished yet. Oh no. Last year? A football party. I thought I'd been really clever when I hired a field from the local school for a tenner. But? On the day it rained and rained and rained and rained. It was like being at a music festival without the music or the festival. I ended up barbecuing sausages under an umbrella, while wearing a cagoul (borrowed, I should add, as I'm not lucky enough to count one of these most flattering items as part of my own wardrobe). And then? A boy stood on a nail which went through his trainer into his foot, and I spent the rest of the afternoon in A&E overseeing stitches and tetanus injections. Fun? Honestly, I've had more fun listening to Alistair Cooke's Letter from America. Alistair Cooke's letter from America? What is that about? I've had more interesting letters from the Inland Revenue, frankly.

And now, on to the catering. I'm hopeless on this front. Truly, I am. Mounds of scorned, uneaten sandwiches, rained-on sausages, jellies that don't set. One year I stayed up all night to make my son a birthday cake. OK, by 4 a.m. I was hitting the brandy big time, and the result looked less like a football pitch and more like the Toxteth riot, but I still don't think his response was entirely called for. 'But, Mummy,' he wept when he saw it in the morning, 'couldn't you have just got one from Tesco?' For this, I gave him another Clip Round the Ear. The great thing about Clip Round the Ear is that it's so easily transportable you can use it anywhere. At home. Abroad. In the car. In the supermarket. Particularly in the supermarket. I don't know of a mother who doesn't use Clip Round the Ear in the supermarket. It's practically obligatory.

I want this year's party to be different. I want this year's to be good. This year I want to do it right. This year I want to be like one of those proper mothers who is all

apron and smiles and flour up to the elbows, and doesn't hire psychopathic clowns from cards in newsagents' windows or make crap cakes. To this end, I got in touch with Annabel Karmel. You must have heard of Annabel Karma. Annabel is the leading authority on cooking for children. Ten years ago, she wrote The Complete Baby and Toddler Meal Planner, which has gone on to be a bestseller in a billion countries and has changed the way we feed our babies. A lot more mashing. No more jars. (Although, that said, I was always particularly fond of Heinz chocolate pudding. Delicious.) Anyway, since then she's bought out a spate of books including — yippee! — The Complete Party Planner. So I email her. 'Help!' goes my email. She invites me round for a cookery lesson. Double yippee. Which is: yippee, yippee.

Annabel lives with her husband and three children in St John's Wood, north London, in a house that is very big and very beautiful and which I probably bought for her, considering all the copies of The Complete Baby and Toddler Meal Planner I've bought for friends of mine. Annabel herself is very petite and pretty, but not entirely perfect. She once tried to make a birthday cake from jellies, but when it came to assembling it 'the whole lot slipped off the counter and went splat on to the floor'. (Tee-bee).

Mostly, though, she is a marvel. Annabel teaches me how to make white-chocolate Rice Crispie cakes, coconut kisses, carrot and pineapple muffins and her 'no-bake train cake'. This is fab. You don't even have to do any cooking or anything. You just buy lots of Swiss rolls and sweets and stuff, and then assemble it into the shape of a train across a couple of cake trays. It doesn't take long, and it looks amazing. I even managed to get it home in one piece, by putting it on the back seat in the car and driving at 2mph. And when my son sees it? 'Mummy.' he says, 'it is so beautiful.' Well, I'm so happy I think I'm going to explode. 'But,' he adds, 'it's much too nice to eat. Couldn't you have just got one from Tesco?'

PS. Have just got back from the party. It was an ice-skating party. It was a great success. There's no food left. Everyone loved the train. I've never been ice-skating before, but I can do it! I think, next year, I might have to use all my new skills in a cooking-on-ice party. I love ice-skating. I love Annabel Karmel. My Grumpy Old Person's Hat must have fallen off at the rink. I've rung them, but no one has yet handed it in. Damn, damn and double damn. Probably been nicked. Can't trust anyone these days. Good job I've got this spare one.

PPS. Annabel Karmel's website is www.cookingforchildren.co.uk, and all her books are published by Ebury.