So, last night, I’m at home, cooking macaroni cheese. Now, my macaroni cheese is good. It is rich and golden, it is unctuous and gorgeous. It is an artery-hardening, full-fat delight. There is much cheese, of many varieties.
And that’s the problem.
There are three boys in my house, Sam, Silas and Linus, and they all like different things. Silas hates fish. Sam hates every kind of bean and mushroom. And Linus hates most things. Especially cheese. Except in mac cheese – but then it has to be the right cheese. Food negotiations are complex and delicate.
This is not unusual. These are regular boys. They play endless computer games. They kick a football around the kitchen and up and down the hall, again – endlessly. And that’s the other problem. Kitchen football drives me nuts. I hate it.
I know they’re just honing their skills, and the results will keep me in Aston Martins and Burgundy in my old age – but it means I end up walking a tense tightrope between keeping everyone happy and expressing my otherwise barely-suppressed rage at having to keep everyone happy.
But as I was cooking last night I suddenly remembered being at my friend Jim Donohoe’s house when I was about 12 and being offered lasagne for tea.
I blanched. I’d never had lasagne, and I was convinced I wouldn’t like it. So Mrs Donohoe said we’d have spaghetti instead. I’d never had that either and was convinced I’d hate it too, but I couldn’t possibly say so, so I ate it.
And it occurred to me as I cooked that I was a very, very fussy child. I have a friend, Jack, who’s known me since we were 11 and still thinks I only eat yellow food.
And yet, from Mrs Donohoe and, more importantly, my own Mum, I encountered nothing but kindness and understanding throughout my childhood.
In the Bible, the Psalms are full of regret for things done in the past, and wonder at God’s forgiving nature. Psalm 25 pleads, ‘Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions: according to your mercy remember me for your goodness’ sake, O Lord’.
So when I lose it at the boys for the endless kitchen football, or grit my teeth as one of them looks at their dinner in horror, I shall try to remember Mrs Donohoe, and certainly remember my Mum who forgave me much more than refusing green vegetables. And I shall thank God that the sins of my youth are not remembered – and try not to stress about macaroni cheese.
This was the first Pause I wrote for Chris Evans’ show. The macaroni cheese I cook is the recipe from Hawksmoor. Mrs Donohoe is real.