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Saturday, November 15, 2014

Teach your sons to cook, woman!

With the final two of my four sons recently moved out of home, I find myself thinking about house fires a lot and whether or not my boys have planned an emergency exit in the dead of night from their tinder wood lodgings. 

I worry about a lot of things really... but two dangers which hadn’t occurred to me were starvation and accidental poisoning.

Padraic, my nineteen year old who’s moved into a rundown death trap with three of his mates, was over for dinner on Monday night.

“Can you put some spag bol into a container for me to take home please Mamma Bear?”

“Sure, Padraic,” I answered. “How’s the money situation going?” 

Sometimes I wonder how he’s existing living out of home on a first year apprentice wage.

“I have eight bucks until I get paid on Thursday,” he sighed with a small degree of pathos added.
As I said, it was only Monday.
I ferreted around the kitchen, packing up various items of foodstuffs for him. I didn't want to hand out money to him. 

That’s no way to teach him to budget is it?

“Can I have a toilet roll?” he asked as we sashayed past the bathroom.

“Here you go,” I said, plonking toilet rolls into his burdened down arms. “Take three, sir.”

“Can I have four please, Mamma Bear?”
I fretted about him all night as I tossed and turned in bed.

On Tuesday after work, I called into the supermarket. Things were clearly desperate on Bachelor Avenue. I loaded up the trolley with fruit, two minute noodles, bread, milk, cereal, ham, cheese, soap and toothpaste and paid a surprise visit on 'Ric, Neil, Mike and Adrian at Codrington Road, Bristol'.

The Young Ones

When I arrived, Padraic and his mate Ben, were hefting a queen sized plastic clad mattress and bed frame into Padraic’s bedroom.

“Where did that come from?” I asked.

“A-Mart! Only cost me $350 Mamma Bear!”

Oh, I thought. That explains why he has no money for food. His priorities lean more towards enticing the ladies into his den of iniquity rather than spending his cash on the essentials of life… like food and toot paper.
On Thursday night (payday), I received a call from Padraic requesting advice on how to cook a curry. He’d bought a tray of stir fry beef strips and a curry kit I’d recommended (which is a cinch to cook if you follow the simple instructions).

Very authentic curry!

Padraic and his housemates were stuck on step one.

“Mamma Bear! I need to know how to brown the meat. Do I cook the black thing with the meat?”

What black thing? I thought.

“You know Mamma Bear… the black pouch under the meat on the tray.”

“NO!!!” I screamed down the phone. “That’s just the pad to soak up the blood! Why the hell would you cook that, Padraic? It’s plastic! You’d poison yourselves!”

“I thought it was sauce, Mamma Bear.”

Anyway, he managed to cook a meal for himself and his housemates and I don’t think anyone was hospitalised as a result.

Text message from baby son.

I, on the other hand, had to take a tranquiliser and stiff drink or two to calm myself down.

I just hope to hell those boys don’t have a gas stove because I really don’t want to know about it if they do.

Have you taught your kids how to cook?
Has Pinky failed as a mother?