Lindsay Woods: The majority of the nation, during testing times, will reach for the kettle

The day the dishwasher packed in, I baked two dozen chocolate chip cookies.

“What are you doing?” asked my husband, with a tone laced with more irritation than a pair of knickers with a too tight elastic.

“Baking,” was the equally terse reply. As he scooped quantities of water from the beneath the kitchen counter, hissing at the machine, I enquired to the back of his flustered head, “Will you be long there with the measuring jug?

Never mind, you’re grand… I’ll make do with the scales.”

The majority of our nation, during testing times, will reach for the kettle. I reach for the flour.

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This was not always the case. Truth be told, I was capable of burning salad prior to having children. When it was just us two, along with a hefty disposable income, meals out or spending the bones of an electricity bill on microwaveable M&S offerings, was all too commonplace.

So, we made a pact prior to starting a family: my side of said agreement was to learn how to use the washing machine (I reneged for the most part on that) and, to learn to cook. It was not an easy transition to where I currently am (average, yet capable).

I became easily frustrated with the act of cooking per say. I was confounded by the ‘…a dash of this, a pinch of that…’ approach. What did that mean exactly?

A dash or a pinch to someone who knew what they were doing was a completely different kettle of fish as opposed to my level of ineptitude. My husband, family and friends suffered through my offerings.

They chewed, choked and grimaced their way through my experiments, nodding and mumbling words of encouragement as they stored the mouthful they could not yet swallow in the hollows of their cheeks. Like crazed gerbils building reserves for the winter. In truth, the gerbil’s concoctions would have been easier to digest than what I plated in front of guests.

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“Would you ever try some baking? A cake maybe?” said he, as he guzzled indecent amounts of Gaviscon by the neck. “Are you daft? I just managed to meld an entire pot of pasta into a solid lump and you want me to bake?”

“Look, I’ll give you a fool proof recipe for a sponge. There is no way you could cock it up. Trust me.” Armed with the detailed measurements, I procured the ingredients and equipment. There was a testing moment when I enquired as to the whereabouts of the scales to a sales assistant, “Well, you won’t find them here next to the washing machines…”

To say I was dubious that I would produce something palatable from the packages atop the kitchen counter was an understatement.

“I’ll need a visual.”

“A what?”

“I need to see what it should look like.”

“It’s a sponge. What matters is how it will taste. Anything else you can cover with cream.”

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So, I huffed and I puffed and I whispered sweet nothings to the two tins in the oven. After what felt like an eternity, I gingerly removed them to cool on their altars of wire.

“See? I told you; exact quantities, follow the instructions and you can’t go wrong. It’s just logic. They look grand.

Now, come away and leave them to cool as you’ll only end up prodding them.” It was an utter triumph of a sponge. Golden as the desert sands on the exterior, fluffy, light and jubilant on the interior with a layer of silky, lightly whipped cream and moreish jam sandwiched between the two layers.

I was gobsmacked and dumbfounded that I had managed to achieve something that was not only edible but equally delicious.

The kitchen may have looked like it was ransacked by a tropical storm, I may have used every bowl, utensil and shred of my husband’s patience but, in the midst of the chaos, there sat, atop a porcelain platter with a halo of powdered sugar the glorious fruits of my labour.

I would like to say that from that moment I became ruler of the domain that was the kitchen but, it was a slow burn.

Literally and figuratively. While my confidence in relation to baked goods soared, there were copious more misadventures in regards to my culinary endeavours.

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But, baking gave me the confidence to press on, undeterred by my mishaps.

The days are long gone where I request a visual aid for the supposed outcome. I can confidently concoct a meal from whatever ingredients happen to be in the fridge or cupboard.

While baking will always be my main squeeze, I no longer fear the other sustenance related avenues.

The same cannot be said for my relationship with the washing machine. We are still very much at odds…

@thegirlinthepaper