Almost all of my novels feature a male character who’s an ace cook, and doesn’t mind doing most of the cooking.
Christmas always brings home to me why I dream up men who’re happy in the kitchen: it’s because I haven’t lived with one of that species since I was a child. My father was a competent cook, albeit with a limited repertoire – but his set pieces didn’t turn out wrong.
I’ve never been lucky enough (or wise enough?) to hook up with a man who loved to cook. And while I’m happy enough producing bog standard, day-to-day meals, a mere hint of anything more demanding sees me go to pieces. The harder I try, the worse the results. This year, I managed to produced duck that was not so much cooked as incinerated, for the carnivores, plus sprouts that were underdone (that’s being kind).
Every year, I think: ‘Never again. Next year, I’m either hiring caterers or hiring a small hotel, to hell with the cost.’
But that wasn’t to be, this year. We had a single neigbbour as a guest, and my kids plus grandson on Skype. Thank God for modern technology, because, believe me, Skype was so much better than not seeing them at all.
In the meantime, I’m still spending time with my latest fictional hero who’s an ace cook, and dreaming of NEXT Christmas, when I will hire caterers, or hire a small hotel…….