77. Sunday lunch with a twist (4/4)

Finally it was the parents' turn. And they were thinking : how on earth did we get involved in such a silly contest? 

That very morning every child in the family made sure to disappear. The message was clear: 'No, we are not going to give you a hand. Forget it. You are old enough now to prepare a Sunday lunch on your own, and, parents, that means you peel the potatoes.' 

I had secretly been counting on that kind of help but I did not say anything. 

I slowly and leisurely made my way downstairs, keeping my cool and sending a message back: 'It's ok kids, don't worry, your parents have got it all under control.' 

Miss Organiser shouted at us:

'Going to the corner shop! Do you need anything? Anything you might have forgotten for your special lunch?'

Even my mother added her bit:

'Are you sure you two have got everything you need?' 

My goodness! Were we really that bad at parenting/organising/shopping? I could not understand this lack of faith in us. We were the ones keeping the household going, why was no-one noticing? ... Well, I was actually, but this was not the right time to bring that up. I did not want to end up preparing this Indian feast on my own. So I kept quiet - again. Then I began to ponder the fact that I was doing an awful lot of keeping quiet these days. 

Musing over all this I got to the kitchen only to discover that it was in an acceptable state of order. That was truly disappointing. I left me without an opportunity to call the kids and make comments such as:

'Since you haven't cleared up the breakfast dishes and this is making me fall behind schedule, so you'll have to peel the potatoes.'

I was on my own in a tidy kitchen. A tidy kitchen is a kitchen with no-one around, no kids, no family, I was about to start howling (to get the kids to help) when it occurred to me:  where was my husband? This was supposed to be a joint venture, a team effort, mum and dad's turn to show the kids they compete with the kids.

I called. Nothing. 

I looked around. No-one! 

Nice of him to go AWOL on our big day. Maybe we did forget to buy an essential ingredient and he was off to get it? 

I thought we were never ever going to get this ready on time. I tried to reassess: it was only a kids contest after all, a thing they (well, actually, Miss Organiser) came up with during lockdown to add a bit of spice to our days. No need to take it too seriously. For goodness's sake, I was the adult! Did I care if I lost. The most important thing was to take part.

I felt a pang of nostalgia as I remembered the days when we only had to add a squirt of cream and a colourful sweet to a slice of yogurt cake and they were thinking: 'Aren't our parents just awesome? That is so cool!' These days were gone. Now they were over critical with expectations way up there somewhere. 

I turn on BBC2 to listen to Sunday Morning Love Songs. That would cheer me up. I would enjoy hearing the listeners' crazy breakfast menus. But where was my husband? I was about to sound the alarm bells and shout at the kids to come down and help when he came in, cool as a cucumber.

'Do you remember it is our turn cooking today? Have you seen the time?'

Organiser Daughter arrived to see if things were in order and how we were coping. Or maybe to check if we were following the rules! Just as well I did not plan to buy frozen meals! 

As I was staring into the fridge trying to get my bearings and my husband was standing there with his hands in his pocket, she announced that she would make a small contribution. Bake some naan bread. Then she told us we'd better get going. 

'Where is the big chopping board?' My husband started.

'Dad! You really really ought to spend more time in the kitchen. Don't tell me you don't know where the chopping boards are!'

'Mum! Don't print the recipe! Put it up on the screen! That's just last century stuff! Honestly, you two!' 

I started to wish she had stayed out of the kitchen. We could very well have an Indian meal without naan bread. And still impress. No big deal.

By then my husband had located the chopping board and the biggest knife he could find (men) and was chopping a mountain of onions. 

'I think that's far too much!'

'Too late.'

Better too many than not enough, after all onions were really good for you. I got on with the fresh garlic, the fresh ginger, the fresh turmeric (we had to impress after all), and got the spices going. And I had every single one of them in stock (yes!): the green, split cardamon, the mustard seeds and the fenugreek powder. The lot went in there and it looked wonderful. And it smelled so good! I turned on the fan to make sure the neighbours got a whiff of it all. The seeds were gently popping in the hot oil, one by one the bright colours of the spices from the palest beige of the fenugreek to the darkest brown of the cloves, through the bright orange of the turmeric and the dark reds of the crushed chillies ... bliss! 

We got lost in the cooking and got it all ready bang on time. Kids! Watch that space!

A special mention to my Indian reader 😉:  today is your birthday and we would have loved to have you at our table to sample our home-made vegetables Pakoras and our dish of monkfish curry served with rice and naan bread. You'd be the perfect critic! Happy birthday!