Rejoice; the government are going to make cooking lessons compulsory: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/7200949.stm
My sister (whom I love to bits) could burn water. This is despite living an almost uninterrupted childhood with my mother who makes cakes, pies and could cook for England. I, however, cook daily, from scratch, a vast array of things of all types – and I have a full time job and I work for myself in the time I’m not working for The Man or emailing far off muses and dreaming of a better life or hand-in-hand walks on a beach. It may be that she knows how to cook but chooses not to but, to be honest, I think it’s the former rather than the latter. Cooking is not *that* hard. In fact it’s a basic human instinct: food gathering and preparation. Is it perhaps that we have evolved society to such an extent now that we are de-evolving skills like telling the difference between crap food sources and nutritious yummy bits?
My sister is not alone. More and more people seem to say: “oh I can’t cook to save my life”. My Lady boss is totally unable to cook anything at all. My male boss (her husband) chooses not to cook and therefore their three children and themselves eat a constant diet of take-away food full of saturated fat, MSG, salt and twenty kinds of chemical you would not dab onto a grazed knee. No – really – that is their diet – daily.
I’m not claiming to be a hero (ok, a bit) but I try to buy my veg from the local farmer’s market, preferably organic but at the very least au natural. Not shrink-wrapped. Not pre-packed. Not “in syrup”. I’m not a total purist, life is for living, but you know, veg *does* taste better when it’s not travelled3000 miles and sat in plastic for two weeks before being cook-chilled. I know it happens, our most common type of customer is in the food preparation industry – I’m off to a pig farm today up North. I dare you to go to one of these factories and look at the production line, as I do, and see 10,000 quiches a week being made on a conveyor belt with a man-robot-slave-drone dropping handfuls of red-peppers according to a traffic-light system and then squirting the quiche mixture from a hose attached to a massive silo of the quiche mix (pre-made and brought in by one of the those shiny tanker lorries that you thought was bringing petrol when you drove behind it on the motorway and kept your distance but then noticed it said “non-hazardous food product” and sighed with relief knowing you would not burn to toasty brown in a flash frying crash).
Not that I’m trying to put you off. No. Quiche is nice. Real men eat quiche. Bloggers eat quiche.
Anyhoo, I’m off to get ready for the visit to the pig farm. I’m swapping over their hand-scanner today to ensure uninterrupted surveillance of the worker-drones. Now, where’s my wellies?