The Foodie Father
With Father’s Day fast approaching you may be looking for recipes to give your Dad a memorable meal (our Father’s Day recipe collection will help). But if you’re a young father yourself, your children may not be old enough to prepare a great meal. This is the situation that Great British Chefs blogger Food Urchin finds himself in. In this fun post he wonders what meals he may get for future Father’s Days and whether his cookery style will rub off onto his twins.
Blog post and photography by Food Urchin aka Danny Kingston
On the subject of fatherhood, Spike Milligan, that esteemed, eccentric and now sadly expired comedian once said this, “My father had a profound influence on me. He was a lunatic.” And in my opinion, never a truer word has been spoken on the matter.
Not that my father is a lunatic mind, far from it. No, what I mean to say is that when a man becomes a Dad, from that point on, the course of action he takes; the behaviour he displays and the relationship he fosters will have a lasting impact on the lives of his children. His influence is profound and I stringently, cohesively and indubitably believe in this. And I hope that when my beloved twins have grown up and begin to make their own way in the world, that they will one day look at their dear old Dad, with love and tears in their eyes, and think ‘He made us the way we are today.’
I also hope to God, that if they do develop any frailties, they don’t hold me responsible in anyway, especially when it comes to food. You see, one of the things I have always tried to do is to make the kitchen at home an open environment and to involve my children as much as possible. After all, learning about food, about where it comes from, learning how to cook and how to eat are incredibly important life skills to have. There have been occasions though where scenes have unfolded and I have been left scratching my head, wondering whether I am doing the right thing as a father.
Take the time for instance when I brought a whole lamb home, for a mammoth pit barbecue I was putting on. As I carried the stiff, cold, plastic-wrapped carcass into the kitchen and put it on the table, the twins naturally and inquisitively asked what it was.
“This is a lamb,” I told them.
“What like Shaun the Sheep?” replied Fin.
“Er, yes, just like Shaun the Sheep!” I countered, enthusiastically.
“Is it dead?” asked Isla.
“Er, yes…..,” I muttered, perhaps not so enthusiastically.
And with that they both leapt upon the poor, inanimate, headless beast and cuddled it with all their might, making cooing noises, saying things like “Aww, lovely, lovely lamb.” To say that I was perturbed by this sight is an understatement but hey, at least it was educational for them, in some bizarre, macabre way.
In fact, I don’t think they have batted an eyelid at anything I have ever brought home for display.
A pig’s head to be used for making brawn was encountered with a very casual inspection and Isla thought nothing of sticking her tiny finger in the pig’s snout whist firmly rooting another finger up her own. Finlay has gleefully chased his Grandmother out into the garden before, wrestling an ox tongue in his hands, pretending to be some monster from the deep. And through visits to farms and the like, connections have been made, that link from field to plate, which is a rare for children to make these days, so I am pleased about that.
There is the niggling worry in the back of my head that this will backfire one day though. As a result of all this carnivorous indulgence, the twins, probably once they make their politicised teens, may well want to wreck vegan vengeance upon their father with a mung bean and turnip stew. And quite rightly so but at least they’ll know their potato from their elbow; trips to our allotment have sorted that one out too.
What really concerns me is that the twins will end up mimicking their Dad’s style of cooking. And I am not talking about my penchant for doting micro herbs and flamboyant swirls of sauces about the place. Or my preference for Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma as background music when plating up. You know, to enliven the occasion with a sense of grandiose spirit and adventure, even for egg and chips. No, I am talking about my language and temper.
During their short lifespan so far, they have seen home-made, congealed pasta fly across the room, witnessed the whole of the hob erupt into flames and screamed at the sight of Dad, very nearly chopping his index finger off with a cleaver. All of which has been accompanied with a cacophony of swearing, enough to make Gordon Ramsay blush. Just the other day, I heard Isla utter to her brother whilst sitting on the tiled floor by my feet, “F-ing hell Fin, you’ve eaten all the grapes!” She is four, the shame.
This means that as we continue our journey together, in the kitchen and throughout life, I better get my act together; clean things up a bit and tone things down. For the burgeoning little foodies that they are (and imagining that they could well become chefs in the future) wouldn’t it be wonderful to sit there on a Father’s Day, in one of their restaurants and to overhear someone ask, “So, who taught you how to cook?”
And to hear them to reply, “Oh, our Dad did.” And not just some lunatic.
For the record, if Isla or Fin were old enough and up to the task of cooking for their dear ol’ Dad this forthcoming Father’s Day, he would select Nathan Outlaw’s Cornish salt pollack, squid and mussel stew to start. Followed by Hatchet Herd Dexter beef with Jerusalem artichoke gratin by Matthew Tomkinson for mains. And Robert Thompson’s Chocolate and chilli tart with crème fraîche and lime for dessert.
Thanks (Mum)
Blog post and photography by Food Urchin aka Danny Kingston
Who’s cookery style have you inherited or who’s cookery influenced you the most? Your mother’s or your father’s?
