I learned most of my culinary skills the year I was kept home from school to look after the paper shop where I grew up, in the square in Tullow, Co Carlow. Dad was sick and Mam was teaching. It was the early 1950s and business was slack. Most of the customers wanted to tell you the news rather than buy it.
I was busy running from the kitchen to the counter, and timing became very important. In what order do the ingredients go into a lamb stew? How many onions per head? Can yesterday’s scraps be hidden in a stew? How do you prevent Bisto forming into black globs? How long does it take to remove those globs? What is the effect of mistaking nutmeg for Bisto? These matters became vital for my three younger sisters, who were often inclined to push food moodily around the plate.
I learned to prepare vegetables when the shop was slack, to have more spuds than skins, and to cover them with water so they didn’t go grey. I flitted from kitchen to shop and back, taking care not to overcook.
My sister Brighid could never cook – she was too fond of getting lost in romance in the magazines. She did cook corned beef once but salted it liberally. We said nothing until she sat and tasted it. We remember her horrified look, but we forgave her 30 years later.
An officious neighbour came to help once when the shop was busy. There were marrowfat peas simmering. “They’ll never cook at that,” she muttered and turned it up full blast. I was left to clean the mess: four inches of shells in the pot, an inch of green sludge stuck to the bottom and shells all over the cooker.
I had my moments that year; we all ate and nobody died. There were compensations. I could read the Saturday Evening Post, the London Illustrated News, and Life magazine. By reading carefully, I don't mean studiously, but rather leaving no fingerprints.
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