Looking after my daughter is a lesson unto itself when it comes to cooking.
The Fathers For Justice might borrow a leaf and use this as leverage to fight for more access and less cut. Should they accede to their children's occasional bullying for a "cookery quality time" rather than be with the boys down at the pub, they might have allies in the "battle of (s)exes." And there is no luck of opportune to have children with you and away from your new catch. For no mother would be forever fully comfortable with "another mother" to her clutch. There are half-terms, morning walks to school or afternoon rides at the park. And there are the ladies' night Wednesdays, shopping morning Saturdays and morning worship Sundays. Half-terms and the long summer breaks are inevitably periods when parents have to put aside their differences, especially in the unfortunate cases where the courtesy call of grannies to step in is inexistent; pooling kids for sleepovers can not be always synchronised nor combined parenting sustained. Every mother would love free time sure that her children are safe from the law that lets out rapists and paedophiles halfway through their time.
And so my ex- bless her- is always on the phone outlining my kids' programs and her pressing calls so that I can offer to step in. I am not one to let my kids sing praise to another man, so I never ever feel short changed if I have to rearrange my day to give them an impromptu hour at the park.
My daughter Faith is quite a handful even at best. She likes boiled eggs- you should see her insisting with a small clenched fist against a tiny flat palm for the alternative fried egg. The war of graphics is declared just because she is a vowed vegetarian- or so she claims although her eternal meal is the McDonald's chicken nuggets. The winning formula that the egg white is vegetarian while the egg yolk is not.
My cooking skills are best left unsung- not once have I found the egg in the bin and the broken shell in my hand. And the sulphurous smell of a boiled egg is enough to make me declare fasting. But the compromise is better where Faith is concerned- de-shelling the boiled eggs is a welcome course that we have competitively undertaken together in the past.
But luck was not with me on one day when she told me she wanted fried eggs. I jumped to the idea- I could eat one too. With that arrangement we sojourned to the kitchen. Little did I know that her fried eggs were to be vegetarian, too. The lesson started with praise of one Lucy who had been cooking fried eggs for her, especially Lucy's dexterity in separating the white from the yolk.
With that pronouncement, I stumbled- first jealous that someone was wheedling into my Faith's affections, but then in fear. How was I going to separate an egg into white and yolk, considering that I've always thought that they run into each other? But I could not let her see my consternation. So there I was trying to break the first egg- with a great success in creating a nice mess.
'Dad! Don't be sloppy,' an indignant eight year old bellied.
From then on, I was the unwilling culinary student-cum-kitchen porter, starting from the "correct way" to hold the egg in my hand, on to tapping one pointed spot and not a millimetre away, prising the "half-cups" apart at a specific angle, then performing a dance that inevitably left a douse of the egg fluid in my palms- the slipperiness occasioning another accident. The second attempt went well, until I had to shift the contents from one half shell to the other. One turn, then the other way, then back to the other under watchful eyes.
My tutor stood beside me armed with a knife. As I was about to celebrate my feat, she bent to my hand with the knife shouting "Snap!" as she went about separating the very last drop of the egg white from the yolk.
'Snap! Snap! Snap!' she continued jabbing.
Wary of a knifing accident as is currently the norm in UK, I was going crazy by the end of the second egg, but the contents so far saved were microscopic. To save her from being another waif anorexic in the land of plenty and choice, I didn't mind the mess. In all, we separated eight eggs so that she could have something substantial.
Frying the egg white was okay, and luckily she is a far better version and more convincing of the "full of it" advert- she adds no salt at all to her eggs.
On to making a sandwich of the egg white, and my "course work" was back from recess again. The crust-less bread had to be toasted to a specific colour- not burnt. Two tries were rejected with another rebuke- "No Smoke!" Luckily, I don't smoke and so would not be enduring a withering look.
Then came the delicately laying of the egg white onto the toast. On to the shocker; she has this strong affinity to tomato ketchup that she can add it to almost any food, milkshake and icecream included. As I stood back to let the expert do her best, I was shocked as she squeezed the ketchup line after line back and forth over the egg white. Then another toast to cover the egg-ketchup mess.
Finally, the sandwich was set for table. But, not before five minutes of laboriously cutting the sandwich into four equal portions.
By then, I had already foregone the egg yolk that she had dutifully stirred so vigorously yet complainingly "Yak!" about the colour and similarity with something not so edible. All I could do was watch her as she tackled the triangular quartet- occasionally licking the douse of red on her fingers.
