I just can't seem to get it right! I find a dish that the family enthuses about (or at least doesn't moan about, which is pretty damn near to enthusiasm at my table) and so make it two or three times again and the complaints start, my other-half being the chorus leader. "But you like it" I insist. "Yes, but not every few days." they exaggerate. Is there any such malady as Exaggeration Syndrome? If so then it must be genetic on my husband's side.

So just what is the point of watching cookery features on TV, which my husband views endlessly - particularly those presented by the delectable Nigella. "Come and watch this," he'll call me into the room, "It looks really nice." I like to think it's the mixing bowl he is gazing at rather than the plunging neckline. "Did you catch that?"
"No, did you?" I throw back, tetchily. Outcome: Grovelling wimp that I am, I attempt the recipe from memory. You see, by nature I am a butterfly, therefore I am not thorough, therefore I improvise. At improvising I am a master. This may mean using granulated rather than soft brown sugar, cinnamon instead of nutmeg, perhaps rosemary rather than basil, allspice is a similar color to ground ginger, etc, etc. I kid myself that it surely won't make much difference and justify myself that it isn't sensible to keep nipping off to the supermarket for ingredients that might only be used once. It would end up being so costly that dining out would be a cheaper option. It is said that you can lie to others but not to yourself. Well I can and do.

My cookery books span the multiple decades of my married life, covering types and styles of cooking popularized during that time. "Cooking using Clay Pots", "TV Snacks", "Steam Cooking", "Microwave Time Saving". Most impressively of all "Cooking Provence Style" acquired during my Mother Earth period during which I made my own pies, baked my own cakes and, yes, even my own bread, Unbelievably, it was during those inspired years that I even bought a book in Spain where, in the middle of a particularly dry and hot summer, I cooked a Paella with which to surprise my husband and son when they returned from a sea-fishing trip. A lovely hot Paella served by a rather sweaty hostess. The looks of distaste only served to make my temperature rise still more as they shoved their barely touched dishes away. Maybe they were feeling queasy after their day at sea? But this thought was insensitively quashed when they suggested that we go out for a steak, fries and salad. Doggedly, I continued wading through my mound of paella in a vain attempt to prove that they did not know what they were missing nor what was good for them. Another thing I pointed out was that everyone knows that hot food has a counter-reaction when eaten in hot climes - e.g. Chili in Mexico, Curry in India, etc. That, they argued, was different and they remained unconvinced.

I think that maybe only now am I woman enough to admit that I too had, in fact, hated and sweated over every mouthful of that paella! And, yes, I concede that it probably is different. Actually, very different indeed.

Learn more about this author, Josie Palmer.
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