Down memory lane.

The trip into my past has been inspired by Chillside's blog about stitching machines and 'Domestic Science.' I remember very well coming bottom of the class at least once. I was frequently accused of 'cobbling' stitches. I hated sewing then and have continued to hate it. My son learned to stitch his own buttons on at 13. (His sister's didn't as far as I recall, but he was the practical one and had equiptment for mending all his sailing gear including an awl with which he made pouches for his belt amongst other things. He is a whiz at knots and gave us adults all baggywrinkles, napkin rings and table mats made out of natural rope. One thing led to another and he found it was quicker to sew a button on his shirt for the school dance than wait for me to dig out my sewing stuff from the back of the wardrobe.)

All I remember of the cooking classes was being made to clean the sinks with Gumption. This portion of the lesson took much longer than the interesting bit. Shown how to chop parsley with a knife I proudly told the mistress we had a gadget at home for parsley chopping, a sort of roller with blades. A very sophisticated recent addition to my mother's very simple kitchen. She acidly replied that I couldn't always expect to be able to afford gadgets. I think of her often when I switch on the food processor etc. etc.

Unlike the sewing class and the abyssmal French lessons (which I declare prevented me for ever from being able to speak French comfortably) the school experience didn't cloud my future as a cook. Even before I maried I liked cooking and would argue with my dad over who was to cook the Saturday lunch when mum was at work. Once I had my own kitchen and a few wooden spoons there was no stopping me. The careful reading of good recipes by world class chefs stood me in good stead when we moved to Brussels and 'Entertaining' figured highly in the weekly activites. My enjoyment of the culinery arts was greatly enhanced by the enthusiasm of my husband for almost all the dishes I tried. It would have been no fun at all cooking for one of those men who only like plain food or what their mother used to cook. His mother didn't cook much at all, even in the 50's she managed to find convenience foods to avoid taking dirt vegetables into the third floor apartment, and N went to boarding school anyway so home cooking was a treat for him. I valued his appreciation - except on one occasion when he came back from a 'mission' to Paris with a recipe book holder for me.

I felt the romance had died a little.