Our children can teach us a thing or two in the kitchen – and it’s all thanks to TikTok
Something amiss is happening at the nation’s stoves. The natural order of things has been upended. You could call it progress or you could describe it as sharper-than-a-serpent’s-tooth ingratitude – either way, our offspring have started telling us how to cook.
“Have you tried adding a spoonful of umami?” my daughter asks as I obligingly rustle up vegetarian bolognese.
“Where do you keep the sriracha?” enquires her boyfriend. “I could make some spicy mayo if you like?’
Like? Like? Over my cold lifeless body. How dare they? Next thing he’ll have brainwashed her into believing his mum’s roasties are better than her dad’s, which would be calumny verging on grounds for disinheritance.
Back in my day, you left home unable to so much as boil an egg, with a tattered nth-hand copy of Jocasta Innes’ The Pauper’s Cookbook. Like my four sisters I was dispatched to university with no culinary (or indeed household) skills whatsoever as my mother had sagely concluded that girls who couldn’t do such things wouldn’t ever be expected to. She was right. At least to begin with.
Every time any of us came home we would sit like starveling chicks at the dining room table (for those of you who have no idea what a dining room table is, see me afterwards) and wait to be fed. Every mouthful filled us with joy and love and comfort. There was nothing, and I mean, nothing like home cooking.
When I went to university, my mother actually wrote out longhand in her wonderful script recipes for various things, including Rat Poison. It was an early fridge cake of her own invention, featuring crushed digestives, cocoa, butter, Golden Syrup, sultanas and marshmallows – and when my father had the temerity to ask what it was, she tersely responded it was “rat poison” and the name has stuck to this day.
Now, our kids are picking up recipes, techniques and tips on TikTok, which I see as a full frontal assault on my gastronomic authority; using pesto instead of cooking oil, yogurt toast, pasta chips, cloud bread, marry me chicken.
My mouth might water occasionally but if I hear the word “kitchen hack” once more, I may reach for my Sabatier – and yes I do know that Japanese steel is cooler but there is no way I will ever make houseroom for a Miyabi 5000MCD67 because, among other things, it sounds like a motorbike.
I thought it was just me being ousted by Insta-chefs but then we went to supper with friends last weekend and were served the most amazing, flavoursome vegetarian curry.
“This paneer is delicious,” I murmured. “It has retained its texture so beautifully; it just tastes so authentic”
“Oh no that’s not paneer, it’s halloumi!” laughed the hostess. “Another recipe from our eldest.”
The joke was on me but it was shamefully good, Dear Reader. So much so, I swallowed my pride, made a mental note never to describe anything as ‘authentic’ until I first knew what was in it, and yes, resolved to make it at home. Where I will, of course, pass it off as a traditional family favourite...
