Ambling through middle age with a curious approach to life and living leads me to asking many questions every day, a bit like toddlers are apt do. For example, on Sunday I was standing in the kitchen at home reading a text from son no 1 who had just illuminated the world of summer cocktails for me by forwarding the mix for something called a Pearl Harbour. Concurrent with this son no 2 was outside undoing a padlock, for which we’d lost the key, with his lock picking kit. Does that make me a good or a bad father?
And this morning, having read that the head of Pret A Manger has told his staff to give free drinks to people they like, I was perturbed when Tony from Latvia gave me a free green tea. Delicious Monika from Poland has never done that. What does it mean?
But the thing that has baffled me most is the report in the Telegraph that a chef flambéing a beef stroganoff at the Randolph Hotel in Oxford was responsible for starting a major fire when flames were sucked up through vents. “It was a flambé which was the problem,” said Mr Grange, the manager. Accidents happen but what on earth would possess the Telegraph to then helpfully publish the recipe in some sort of Arsonists Cookbook manner thus arming over enthusiastic Dad’s up and down the land to self-immolate themselves after watching the Master Chef final? Picture the scene in the leafy environs of middle England,
“What are you doing darling?”
“Oh, just knocking up a recipe I read in the Telegraph on the train dear”
“hmmmm…. Why are you drinking cognac, bad day darling?”
“No dearest, I’m not drinking it, that’s to set the stroganoff on fire, just like they did at the Randolph Hotel; you never told me cooking could be fun. This is man’s work”
“Right darling, I’ll just call 999 now before you get started….. just to be safe.”
60% of house fires incidentally, start in the kitchen