Sunday, August 31, 2008

A Recipe for Disaster!

“Oh give me a break, Little Miss Fussy,” Mum cut in. “If you don’t like the service round here, why don’t you do it yourself?”
It sounded like a challenge. “All right then, maybe I will.”
Mum folded her arms and squinted at me. “Go on, surprise me. God knows I’ve had enough already with Sean today.”
“I reckon I can cook a better meal than you any day,” I stated with the boldness born of being twelve-and three- quarters and the prospect of macaroni cheese day in, day out, for the rest of my life. Oh my. That runaway mouth.
“Oh really. Is that so?” Mum replied. I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm.
“Yes,” said I.
“Good, I’ll look forward to a fabulous meal next Wednesday. Thank you, Janie, you’ve just solved my cooking crisis. Now where’s that wretched boy?” Mum stalked out of the room, leaving me with the hair, the pasta and the telly. The news had finished and there was a cooking programme on. A British TV chef was flinging noodles around the screen and saying things like ‘pukker’ and ‘innit’.
“Cripes,” was all I could come up with. That, or “Help!”