There is an iconic image in cooking. An older woman - gentle-faced, flour up to her elbows - smiles beatifically at a young child (sex indeterminate) as the child is introduced to the magic of cooking. Initiate and novice, together; passing on the knowledge of how to turn flour, sugar and eggs into pretty cupcakes with butterflies on top.
I was not introduced to cooking like this.
My mother cooked. I watched her - in much the same way as a wild animal prowls around the outside of a fire. She didn't do it because she loved it. She did it because she loved us, and my dad could only cook steak and bacon and eggs. She didn't want us to die of cholesterol poisoning. I suspect that she wanted to be a bit more hands-on about our demises. I know that my brother was top of her hitlist.
As for Grandma, I can remember just two dishes she cooked: tripe and onions - Grandad's favourite, but an acquired taste; and an interesting fruitcake that involved shoving a bunch of ingredients into the sink, turning on the tap for a while, then squishing the resultant mess into something resembling a cake. It was called sinker. Based on the way it sat in my stomach, it was probably the reason the Titanic sank so fast.
Nanna? She wasn't much for cooking. We used to eat a lot of take-away when we visited her. Kentucky Fried Chicken. We liked visiting Nanna.
I did Home Economics at school. All the girls did. Boys were forced to do all the good stuff like woodwork and sheetmetal and tech drawing, while we looked on in envy. It was obvious that the boys were going to do real-world stuff involving machinery and jobs, while we girls would discover, all over again, that the way to a pay packet was through a man's stomach. We were supervised, however. A necessity, as we were in charge of knives, hot stoves and not many brain cells. Fairly simple cooking, in fact. Our Home Ec teacher preferred needlework.
The first time I cooked unsupervised, I wasn't supposed to. Mam had promised to watch me (loose translation: fix up whatever went wrong or got damaged) while I made spaghetti bolognaise for dinner. But only after her nap. The time for her to get up came and went. I got bored. There was a recipe. I was good at following instructions. By the time she eventually came downstairs, apologising for oversleeping and expecting raw ingredients and a disappeared child, I was a cook.
It was a done deal.
I didn't cook often in Malaysia - we had a cook/amah, but once we arrived back in Australia, Mam went out to work. Now I was thirteen and cooking for a family of six. There were conditions - if dinner was hot on the table at half-past five, I got fifty cents. If it was hot on the table at five thirty-five, I got nothing but thanks. Luckily for my mother, I was punctual - the money she paid me for cooking the evening meal, she frequently had to borrow from me later.
Make no mistake, While being a cook was never my intention, I actually enjoy it. My problem is, after so many years feeding people, that it would be nice if the people I am feeding have some inkling of what they might like for dinner. I'm not asking for much. Once a week would be enough. Once a month? A year? Hello? Are you lot listening? I'm asking you for the 11264th time - what do you want for dinner?
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