My Nanna’s jam tarts came to mind the other day, and got me thinking of the odd, memorable , sometimes downright hilarious experiences I have had with food and cookery over the years.

Nan prided herself on her baking ability, we as kids  raved about her prowess with all things sugar, butter and flour , but somehow , as she advanced in years, her baked goods could very well be confused with munitions manufacturing. Those tarts, as did her cakes and slices,over time became tough little projectiles that could, if not treated with the utmost caution, possibly break teeth. She never seemed to notice our trepidation though, as we fearlessly proceeded to eat them, while always complimenting her with fervour.

My dad’s cooking efforts were legendary. He actually experimented with all sorts of ingredients, in the era of meat and three veg in most other  Aussie households. 

Starting married life in Sydney’s Chinatown in the early 1950s, and marrying into a Chinese family, he was very familiar with Chinese food and ingredients, and so my sisters and I were brought up on rice, Chinese cabbage, on special occasions Char siu, (Chinese Roast pork )and LopChong (sausage), and of course copious amounts of See Ow, the Cantonese name for soy sauce.

I remember as a young child eating rice, milk and sugar for dessert, on special occasions, not, I would think, a sought after meal these days. Nor arrowroot biscuits served in a bowl with milk poured on top. Strange but true.

By the mid 1950s the family had moved from the inner city to Bondi. On one occasion Dad was cooking dinner, and had run out of See Ow. He sent me running to the corner store, where I befuddled the poor shopkeeper.He had no idea what See Ow was. Back to dad empty handed, all was revealed, and after another run to the shop, I returned with what I now knew was called soy sauce. I had no idea I was speaking to our shopkeeper in a different language.

Dad had many interesting attitudes and ideas about food. His mantra was, no waste. If we were given rice, we ate every grain because ” people are starving in China”. Admirable, and understandable. 

He also distrusted the concept of use by dates when they came into being. If there is mould on anything, just cut it off, or remove it with a spoon. She’ll be right, mate. He invented that saying.

When we ate fish, he consumed the eyes, a delicacy he fought over with my Nan. Somehow this never caught on with the rest of us.

The most legendary thing he ever did with food remains forever in the annals of our family folklore.

Dad loved a drink. In fact, he loved a lot of drinks, and would often come home inebriated. And hungry. The experiments with food then became, to borrow from Alice In Wonderland, curiouser and curiouser. 

One night, he opened a can of sardines and proceeded to fry them in a pan. The rancid odour which wafted through our tiny semidetached, and found itself in every nook and cranny, was like nothing we had ever smelled before. It was beyond words, infiltrating everything. Our curtains, bedding and carpet smelled like a fish cannery for what seemed like months after. My mother was in despair.  

Many years later, unknowingly, I followed in my dear dad’s footsteps. 

It was New Year’s Eve and Hubby and I were living on Berry Mountain. Home for the night, I prepared a sumptuous seafood menu, part of which was delicious, deep fried whitebait.

Oh the muscle memory! What was I thinking? Had I not learned  from all those years ago?

The thick, luxurious drapes that I found so old fashioned but had not as yet been  replaced,  and there were so many in that  house, sucked in the fishy fumes like ink in a piece of chalk. There was no other way, they all had  to be dry cleaned .

Never have I deep fried anything again. 

But there have been other culinary incidents. 

Years ago , catching prawns for the first time,I forgot to wash the grit out, and cooked the prawns. The result was crunchy, unappetising,inedible. But in hindsight, very funny.

I have frequently exploded butter in the microwave, whilst trying to melt it. Now that’s a messy cleanup, requiring time, and lots of absorbent kitchen towel.

Almost akin to the days  when the original pressure cookers would explode, quite regularly, sending their globulous contents ceiling high. Blenders also had a habit of doing that to me. Or maybe it was the other way round? I’ve never had a trusting relationship with small appliances.

Despite these setbacks, I love the art of cooking, and have instilled that in my offspring. Sitting on the kitchen bench as tinies, helping me stir, mix , crack eggs, made great memories. And who can forget the Mother’s, or Father’s day brekky of burnt Vegemite toast with a lukewarm cup of tea they proudly produced?

My teenage son once coated our kitchen in flour , whilst producing the best bagels ever eaten. Not to be superseded on another occasion by a five hour manufacture of homemade gnocchi to die for. 

Yes, despite past history, my offspring can all cook, and cook well. I haven’t heard of any of their cooking disasters though, but Time will tell, it’s in their DNA.