I’ve written in earlier blog posts that my Mam was not the best cook in the world. She was very slap-dash, and her motto in life was: ‘Oh, that’ll do’.

When cooking mashed potatoes, she wouldn’t bother removing the black, rotten parts of the potato. She would just quickly squash them four or five times with a fork, meaning the resulting ‘mash’ was lumpy, cold and full of black bits.

‘Oh, that’ll do’.

Her gravy was the same, and all the other veg. Cold, lumpy and slightly burned. I could never understand why she would put the Yorkshire Puddings in after the veg was cooked, meaning everything else had to be eaten cold. 

‘I need the oven to do the meat, and there’s not enough room.’

‘Then why not cook the meat before you do all the veg, then you can cook the Yorkshire’s at the same time?’ a ten year-old Paul asked one Sunday morning, before being firmly slapped around the back of the head.

‘Get out of my kitchen and stop being so impittent,’ she snarled.  

‘Ouch!’ I exclaimed, rubbing my head. ‘But, I think you mean impudent.’

‘Ouch!’ I never learned to shut my gob.

Around the age of twelve I began cooking most of my own food. I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I needed to eat. I was emaciated. So, I taught myself to cook. And bake. I became quite good at it too. Now, a disclaimer here. I didn’t learn fusion cooking, or Asian cuisine, or how to make Sushi, or anything like that. We aren’t talking Michelin star here, more Michelin tyres. I learned how to make cakes, I learned how to bake bread, and make my own tea. That’s it. I got a recipe book, learned the basics of making things like omelettes, pasta and rice dishes. 

Years later, when I got married, I did most of the cooking. My wife was a lazy cook and would buy ready meals, or processed, oven-ready crap such as chicken kievs, or mini waffles, which I didn’t think was the best way to feed my kids.

When I see young men who cannot look after themselves, or who need their wives to cook for them, like many of my mates, I shudder. It’s laziness and incompetence. If you can read a recipe, you can cook. It’s that simple. I might moan about my mother’s lumpy mash, I might complain about being made to clean the house every week, and having to wash and iron my own clothes, but it did me a lot of favours in the long run. I am independent, self-sufficient and capable as a result of it.

Finally, my wife wants to thank my mother for being such a lousy cook. Well done Mum, you did me proud. So, what’s the best thing I’ve eaten? Well, my mashed potato isn’t half bad.