My husband is worried about potatoes.
I’ve asked him to make Hasselbacks – small, baked potatoes, sliced thinly on top but not all the way through, creating a fancy, fan-like effect.
He doesn’t blink an eye at the faff, but insists: “I think I should do some roasties, too. Can you order an extra bag?” Earlier, he was also contemplating adding dauphinoise to the menu; I think I’ve managed to talk him down.
My husband isn’t some kind of tattie obsessive – he’s planning a family meal and doesn’t want anyone to feel disappointed. The thought of somebody suffering politely through boiled spuds when all they’re really craving is some moreish mash would break his heart.
“Love languages” are discussed frequently these days – the idea that we all give and receive affection in five different but specific ways: words of affirmation, acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, and physical touch. There should be an extra category, I think, for the special, gifted souls among us who show they care by cooking.
You know the ones I mean – every dish they touch turns to something delicious, whether it’s a MasterChef-worthy recipe or basic comfort food. The people who can improvise without instructions and still serve up a triumph; who seem to telepathically know precisely what you’re hungry for, and will roll up their sleeves no matter the day, time or occasion. No detail is too small, and no request out of the question.
I am, categorically, not one of these magical people. The last time I made a casserole, the bottom fell out of the dish when I lifted it out of the oven. And that was a decade ago.
I do, however, seem to have a knack of finding and surrounding myself with great cooks who more than make up for my shortcomings. I got pretty lucky with the first one I met – she’s my mother.
No ego, just love, care and flavour
If my mum could make every person on the planet feel better, she would. And she’d do it by sitting them down at the kitchen table and serving them a steaming bowl of soup, or sweet, sticky rice pudding, or a plate laden with chicken and roasted vegetables, or whatever else they fancied. All homemade, of course – there’s no other way in her kitchen – and all packed with flavour.
I was a teenager before I realised not every mum was automatically a cook skilled enough to be a chef. To say I took it for granted as a child is an understatement.
If I ever baked something that tasted so good, you’d never hear the end of it. For her, it’s no different to giving me an extra hug
There’s no ego behind that kind of cooking; she wasn’t (and still isn’t) doing it for praise, but out of a primal, fundamental kind of love. What better way to keep the people you care most about healthy, to make them feel comforted and happy, than by feeding them well and often?
Shrove Tuesday is the perfect example: every year, my mum stood at the hob and made us fresh and light pancake after pancake, with no limit, until we couldn’t manage another bite. She ate last, only once we were full to bursting.
My oldest friend is a phenomenal baker and cook, too; turning up at every social event with a tin of cake or a loaf of focaccia bread she decided to make last-minute.
“They’re not very good,” she’ll inevitably say as you sink your teeth into the most delicate yet rich, perfectly balanced chocolate brownie or mince pie you’ve ever tasted. The kind of treats trendy San Franciscans would queue round the block for, wrapped in foil and pressed into your hands like it’s no big deal.
If I ever baked something that tasted so good, you’d never hear the end of it. For her, it’s no different to giving me an extra hug on the way out the door.
‘Whenever I fall in love, I begin with potatoes’
In the novel Heartburn, Nora Ephron wrote: “Whenever I fall in love, I begin with potatoes.” What Ephron’s narrator Rachel Samstat means here is that her instinct when she develops feelings for someone is to cook for them. It goes beyond that old adage: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach; it’s like a musician writing a love song, or an artist painting their muse.
A long time ago now, a boy made me dinner, concerned that – temporarily staying alone – I wasn’t feeding myself properly. Which, admittedly, I wasn’t.
He cooked pasta (not potatoes), and didn’t have to tell me about how caring and conscientious a guy he was: it was all laid out for me, there on the plate. Reader, I ate every bite before I married him.
I wonder if you’re thinking, now, of somebody you know who likes nothing more than cooking tasty food for their nearest and dearest, even after days of sweating over a hot stove. Maybe somebody who just made your Christmas dinner and, at this very moment, is firing up the frying pan to sauté leftover tatties and turn the contents of a chaotic, festive fridge into a sumptuous feast.
Kiss the cook from me. And, if you are the cook – thank you, we love you, too.
Alex Watson is Head of Comment for The Press and Journal and a potato connoisseur
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