Dads cooking. Oh, you’ll never know the tribulations. My Auld Da (he’s 85 now) was enlightened for his class and era, and would cook for us when Mum went out. (She’d go to the pub with pals, or various night classes and activities). He thought of himself as a wayward genius in the kitchen. Thing is he loved pilchards, which Mum hated, so when she went out we were getting pilchards. But he didn’t stick to normal things like pilchards on toast. Oh my got no, it was haute cuisine from his fucking head is what it was.
Pilchard puff was one invention. That was toad in the hole but instead of sausages it was pilchards. Pilchard stovies (stovies is a Scottish dish somewhere between corned beef hash and stew, in which any meat can be used, but never pilchards). Basically any dish that shouldn’t have pilchards in, you replace the meat component with pilchards. And he was always so proud of himself.
Dad’s cooking was the reason I learned to cook. On days Mum was out we’d rush home from school to try to get in the kitchen before Dad.
It was good because I wanted to be vegetarian throughout my teens, and I could only do that if I took on cooking duties. But also I wanted to explore. I wanted to try adventurous things. You could say I got that from Da. Maybe I did.
But my parents, bless them, were very willing to eat what I’d cook, even if it was outside of their repertoire. Though Mum would always be quizzing me about where the protein was, and was there enough of it.