NOT SO GLORIOUS FOOD
I am fed up with food, fed up with trying to think what to make for dinner, not just today but every day.
I reckon that over the years I have cooked thousands of meals. A quick calculation (done on paper as mental arithmetic never was my strong point) makes that more than 20,000 meals. I’m shocked.
I’m not after red rosette stuff here – just good, plain food. I don’t want to serve beautiful, tiny portions (and don’t get me started on food served on bits of slate or planks of wood – I want to eat it, not frame it). And it’s not even as if I’m that bothered what I eat, I just want something sustaining, filling, something that tastes okay.
I know there are clever companies that deliver recipes and ingredients to your door and that’s all well and good but it still means I’d have to think what to cook in the first place. There’s the problem – I am devoid of ideas, empty of inspiration.
If someone gave me a list of meals to cook for the week or month I could cope because I’m full of good intentions. Most Sundays I decide to plan a menu for the week, but by Monday morning I’ve usually given up and the old standbys are put on the table: spag bol, shepherd’s pie, sausages. A recent survey that said most families have a basic menu of three or four meals that are served all the time, so it’s not just me.
The problem would be solved if I had a food fairy, a sort of female Jamie Oliver, who with a wave of her magic wand would make meals appear on the table every evening, perfectly presented, nutritionally balanced, tasty.
The worst thing is it never stops – I can’t suddenly say one day, “Oh, I’m never going to make another meal, ever.” Well, obviously I could say that and my DH (helped by M&S) might step in, but that doesn’t seem fair, and when I think of the millions of women through the ages who have struggled to feed themselves and their families I feel small-minded to be complaining.
Women over millennia have foraged and gleaned, gone hungry, milled grains, skinned animals, taken chops from mastodons, cooked nice sabre-toothed tiger stews on smoky fires in cold caves, while there’s me whinging because I can’t decide what to cook in a very nice kitchen! I could be in a refugee camp and that makes me feel worse because I I need never be hungry.
I shall stop all this; I will count my blessings, be grateful – but we’ll have a take-away tonight!
