The Welcome Table

I come from a family of hoarders. My parents had a huge garage which they filled with offcut pieces of timber from old furniture as well as shoes, old paint, our old baby clothes, chinese herbs and on occasion, the current rooster of the household. The latter was let out after dawn and his crowing were done for the morning. One time my mother bought 50 tins of Chinese mushrooms (bought for 40 cents/can 'is cheap!') and there they sat over a number of years as a can or two were taken back inside for a meal.

Partly due to lack of space and also a mild dislike of mess I have taken away a relatively dilute form of my parents' love of stuff. But thrown back into the mix is my apathy for most things domestic and we end up with a fine balance between utter chaos and pristine living.

What I have inherited and which has started to manifest itself here with this blog and on various family members' waistlines is that I enjoy home cooked food. This would seem a very peculiar revelation for those who cannot imagine an alternative. It was certainly something my mother always drummed into my head, the virtues of home cooking on our souls and physical well being and on the chances of roping in a kindly husband with 'Doctor' for a title. Alas, none of those things really mattered when I thought my body was invincible and could sustain itself on restaurants, take away places and junk food. I do suppose now that I think about it, the very reason why I took no notice was that I didn't want to be seen as a house frau and my mother's vision of a proud husband looking on at a wife with wonderful culinary skills was a very horrid vision indeed. I should have dispensed with such ridiculous thinking years ago but I suppose the love of cooking is something that can be cultivated without time limits and with a sense that to be able to cook and welcome those you love to share the spoils is wonderful indeed.