What, Me Cook?

My family has decided I've lost my culinary abilities.

Not true. They're still alive and well. Okay, I'll admit many of them are a bit rusty, but come on. When you've thought up and created three meals a day, day in and day out for 40 plus years, your culinary creativity begins to wane. And so does your interest.

When the kids were little, I used to bake all our bread—until we realized we ate too much of it. Warm-from-the-oven homemade bread is way too enticing. Back then, I loved to cook and they all thought I was good at it.

It wasn't until our youngest son became a gourmet cook, my skills have come up wanting. And it was never so apparent as this Christmas.

 I decided to make an English trifle to take to our friend's house for Christmas Eve dinner. My mother-in-law taught me to make a proper one. As you know, the hubs is British. Mum is too, obviously. So I made a trip to the store to buy all the ingredients I didn't already have, mainly whole milk and whipping cream.

I've never had a failure at making a trifle. But for some reason, this year it nearly did me in. I got the first few layers done without any help or disasters, thank you. With the hubs breathing over my shoulder, I pulled out the can of Bird's Custard Powder (an English brand), we noticed it expired in 2009.

He thought it would be fine. I had my doubts but after all, he'd been making this custard since he was a little boy. And they didn't have expiration dates on the packets back then. Uh-huh. And the custard didn't thicken. I tried to warn him that those dates are there for a reason.

So I made a trip back to the store for a new can of Bird's Custard Powder and another quart of whole milk. This time, he decided he could do it better. I'm no fool. I let him. Except he forgot to double the recipe.

Yep. It didn't thicken. And I made another trip to the store. For another quart of milk.

We finally got it right. And it turned out just like it should. Only it took me a few hours longer than it used to. Hours I could have been using to write.

When the gourmet had a serving, he looked at me with surprise. Like he'd totally forgotten his mum used to be a whiz in the kitchen. However, I don't try to prove it any more. When you have a gourmet for a son, one who loves to cook, why should I?

I'm content letting them think I've lost my culinary abilities.