Cookery club part 1

The first week of the summer holidays had not gone quite as anyone had planned.

On Sunday evening there had been the worrying phone call from Leicester Royal Infirmary.

Dad had disappeared to Leicester to be with Grandma Brand.

Mum had spent three days glued to her phone.

Marjory, Marmaduke’s mum and a doctor, had spent half her life reassuring everyone while secretly wishing hospitals came with instruction manuals for worried families.

Grandma was now recovering, which was wonderful.

Unfortunately, the summer holiday timetable had been flattened.

Football camp had begun on Monday.

The boys hadn’t.

By Thursday morning, Mrs Brand finally announced,

“Right! Today, everyone is going to camp.”

Barry punched the air.

“FOOTBALL!”

“No.”

“Football?”

“No.”

“Definitely football?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Cookery.”

Barry stared.

“I’ve never scored a goal with lasagna.”

Marjory drove the three boys to school.

Barry and Marmaduke sat in the back, discussing whether spaghetti counted as worms.

“It does if you squint,” Barry decided.

“It definitely does,” Marmaduke agreed.

Alfie sighed.

“It absolutely doesn’t.”

Barry smiled.

“You don’t squint enough.”

As they reached the school gates, children carrying mixing bowls and aprons wandered inside.

“This looks fun,” Marjory smiled.

“I’ll pay tomorrow.”

Mrs Rossi appeared at the door before anyone had even knocked.

She wore a bright red apron covered in tomatoes, basil leaves and tiny smiling pizzas.

She looked exactly like someone who believed food could solve almost everything.

“Ciao!”

“Ciao,” Marjory smiled.

“I’m so sorry they’ve missed the first few days…”

Mrs Rossi waved both hands dramatically.

“No problem! No problem! In Italy we say, nessun problema!”

Barry repeated carefully.

“Nessie no problem.”

Mrs Rossi laughed.

“Close enough.”

“They’ve only just been able to come.”

“We have plenty of ingredients. You pay tomorrow.”

She smiled at the boys.

“Today…”

She paused dramatically.

“…we make chocolate cake.”

Barry gasped.

“…and lasagna.”

Barry gasped louder.

“I’ve found my favourite teacher.”

Mrs Rossi led the boys to the Home Economics classroom with mini kitchens that reminded Alfie vaguely of The Great British Bake-off tent, but less snazzy. She clapped her hands. 

“Aprons!”

Everyone put on aprons.

Barry somehow tied his around his neck like a superhero cape.

Mrs Rossi untied it.

“No flying chefs.”

The cookery classroom smelled wonderful.

Fresh herbs.

Garlic.

Tomatoes.

Chocolate.

Warm bread.

Barry sniffed deeply.

“It smells like dinner.”

“It smells like Italy,” Mrs Rossi corrected.

Barry nodded respectfully.

“I’ve never been inside Italy before.”

Mrs Rossi divided the children into teams.

Alfie joined some older children weighing flour and carefully measuring ingredients.

Mrs Rossi trusted him with digital scales.

She had clearly sensed he was the sort of child who enjoyed reading instruction leaflets.

Barry and Marmaduke were given the safe jobs.

Stirring.

Mixing.

Pouring.

Sprinkling.

“Rule number one,” Mrs Rossi announced.

“The grown-ups use the hot ovens and sharp knives.”

Barry nodded.

“Good.”

“Rule number two.”

“Yes?”

“No tasting until I say.”

Barry looked horrified.

“Even tiny tasting?”

“No.”

“Microscopic tasting?”

“No.”

“What about accidental tasting?”

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“I know your type.”

First came the cake.

Barry cracked an egg.

Or rather…

Barry attempted to crack an egg.

Half landed in the bowl.

Half landed somewhere suspiciously close to his shoe.

Marmaduke copied him.

Exactly.

Mrs Rossi blinked.

“Remarkable.”

“What?”

“You both missed in exactly the same place.”

“It was teamwork,” Barry explained.

Next came the flour.

Mrs Rossi said,

“Slowly.”

Barry heard,

“As quickly as possible.”

A magnificent white cloud exploded into the air.

Everyone disappeared.

When the dust settled, Barry looked like an elderly snowman.

Marmaduke looked identical.

Mrs Rossi stared.

“I have always wanted to meet two walking profiteroles.”

Alfie glanced over.

“I knew this would happen.”

“You were right,” Barry admitted cheerfully.

“I usually am.”

“I know.”

Once everyone had stopped laughing, Mrs Rossi showed them how to fold the mixture gently.

“Not like this.”

She pretended to stir furiously.

“Like this.”

She folded carefully.

Barry copied perfectly.

For almost six seconds.

Then he sped up because faster always seemed more exciting.

“It’ll be fine,” he announced.

Mrs Rossi looked at the mixture.

“It is… enthusiastic.”

While the cakes baked safely in the ovens—strictly operated by the adults—it was time for the lasagna.

Mrs Rossi held up fresh basil.

“What is this?”

“Basil,” Alfie answered.

Barry sniffed it.

“It smells green.”

“That is surprisingly accurate,” Mrs Rossi admitted.

The younger children were allowed to tear basil leaves.

Sprinkle cheese.

Mix ricotta.

Layer pasta sheets into the dishes.

Barry discovered lasagna sheets were wonderfully floppy.

He balanced one on his forehead.

“I am Chef Lasagna.”

Marmaduke copied him.

“I am Assistant Lasagna.”

Mrs Rossi looked at the ceiling.

“Saint Antonio… give me strength.”

Everything was going beautifully.

Until Barry spotted oregano.

“What does this do?”

“It adds flavour.”

Barry looked impressed.

“So more is better?”

“No.”

“Definitely no?”

“Absolutely no.”

Barry nodded.

Then accidentally tipped rather more oregano than intended into one dish.

Mrs Rossi rushed over.

“Stop!”

Barry froze.

“I sneezed.”

“You sneezed with remarkable accuracy.”

Fortunately, Mrs Rossi rescued the recipe.

“Cooking is about balance.”

Barry considered this.

“So… cooking is like standing on one leg?”

“No.”

“But balancing.”

“A different balancing.”

Adults say things that make perfect sense to adults.

Children notice the loopholes.

Soon delicious smells filled the room.

Tomato sauce bubbled gently.

Cheese turned golden.

The cakes rose beautifully.

Mrs Rossi folded her arms proudly.

“My grandmother would approve.”

Barry whispered to Marmaduke,

“I think that’s the highest award.”

At lunchtime everyone sat together.

Mrs Rossi served slices of lasagna.

Barry took one bite.

His eyes became enormous.

“This is AMAZING.”

“Because it’s homemade.”

“I think restaurants should copy this.”

Mrs Rossi laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork.

Marmaduke ate two helpings.

Alfie ate everything on his plate.

Barry asked for thirds.

Mrs Rossi smiled.

“I think someone likes Italian food.”

“I’d marry lasagna.”

Alfie sighed.

“You can’t marry lasagna.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t legally recognised.”

After lunch came the best bit.

The chocolate cakes had cooled.

Mostly.

Mrs Rossi spread chocolate icing across each one.

The younger children were allowed to decorate.

Barry carefully placed chocolate buttons.

Perfect circles.

Tiny sprinkles.

Then…

Without anyone noticing…

He added two strawberries.

Mrs Rossi frowned.

“I did not leave strawberries there.”

Barry smiled proudly.

“It needed a face.”

The cake now looked astonishingly cheerful.

Marmaduke immediately copied him.

His cake looked permanently surprised.

Finally came washing up.

Mrs Rossi handed Barry a tea towel.

“This is an important job.”

Barry saluted.

“I won’t let you down.”

Five minutes later…

Barry had polished exactly one spoon.

But he’d also invented something called “Tea Towel Bullfighting.”

The tea towel was the cape.

Marmaduke was apparently the bull.

Neither of them had washed anything else.

By three o’clock the boys were exhausted.

Not football exhausted.

But flour-covered, cheese-filled, chocolate-coated exhausted.

Marjory arrived to collect them.

“How was it?”

Barry held up his cake proudly.

“I am basically Italian now.”

Mrs Rossi laughed.

“We may need a few more lessons.”

As they walked towards the car, Barry carried his cake box as though transporting priceless treasure.

Halfway across the playground he stopped.

“I need to check it’s safe.”

He lifted the lid.

The cake slid gracefully forward.

Barry caught it with both hands.

Mostly.

A small blob of icing landed directly on his nose.

Marmaduke burst into giggles.

Barry licked the icing off.

“Crisis over.”

Back at home, Mum had just finished another work call.

“You’re back!”

Barry marched into the kitchen.

“We made lunch.”

“We made pudding.”

“We met Italy.”

Alfie smiled.

“Mrs Rossi was brilliant.”

“She really was.”

Barry placed the cake on the table.

Mum admired it.

“It looks wonderful.”

“I decorated it.”

“I can tell.”

“How?”

“It has eyebrows.”

That evening Dad rang from Grandma’s house in Leicestershire.

Grandma had been discharged and was tucked up in her favourite armchair with a blanket, a cup of tea and strict instructions to rest.

Barry insisted on speaking first.

“We made lasagna!”

“Did you?”

“It was delicious.”

“I’m jealous.”

“We made cake too.”

“I hope you’re bringing me some.”

Barry looked at the rapidly shrinking cake.

There was only one sensible answer.

“Yes…”

He covered the phone with his hand.

“…if I don’t accidentally eat it first.”

Grandma laughed.

“I’ll take my chances.”

Friday’s cookery club promised homemade pizza.

Mrs Rossi had already warned everyone that there would be dough.

Barry had heard only one word.

“Dough.”

His imagination had immediately transformed it into edible playdough.

Alfie quietly packed an extra clean T-shirt.

Marjory packed baby wipes.

Mrs Brand packed hope.

Mrs Rossi, meanwhile, simply smiled.

She had survived Thursday.

How much trouble could two four-year-olds and one sensible eight-year-old possibly cause in a single morning?

As it turned out…

Quite a lot.

But that, as Barry would later explain with great confidence, was simply one of the secret ingredients.