Long before I ever knew what a Eureka moment was
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: A little kitchen drama soon put to rights.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A little kitchen drama soon put to rights.
It was 1960, a Sunday and it was raining hard outside. I was eight years old and bored out of my tiny skull. The comics, The Beano, The Dandy and The Beezer had been read and re-read so I sloped towards the kitchen in search of inspiration, and perhaps a chocolate digestive.
Mum was busy slapping lard all over the big chicken which was to be lunch, her sleeves rolled up to give her more purchase. From the window I could see my old man talking to his beds of beetroot, spring onions and Ayrshire potatoes; he was supposed to be cutting the grass.
“If you're bored,” said mum, now washing her hands in the sink, “you can peel the potatoes for me. And mind, that knife is sharp.”
I'd seen it done a thousand times but this was the first time such a task had been entrusted to me; but, being born in a kitchen, I wasn't about to be fazed by it. The spuds weren't Ayrshires but wax skinned, it was too early in the year yet for Ayrshires and of course they only need a firm rub under the tap so they can be eaten skins and all. Mum slid the chicken into the oven then went upstairs to change the beds and I set to with the blade, my tongue fully extended to help with my concentration.
I was happy with my efforts as I rinsed the peeled potatoes under the cold tap, and just about to take the peelings out to the old man for his compost pit behind the hut when he and mum entered the kitchen from different angles.
“Good God almighty!” exclaimed mum, dropping her arms full of bedsheets to the kitchen floor.
“What's up?” said the old man and me almost together.
“You could make chips with those peelings. Look,” she said, holding one up by way of demonstration. Turning to me she continued, “I'm sorry now I trusted you with this. That's almost three days’ worth of potatoes you've laid waste to.”
“Not to worry,” said dad, throwing me a sly wink, “we can salvage the situation.”
“I certainly hope so,” said mum, busying herself with the twin tub, “because if we have to buy more potatoes it's coming out of your beer money.”
“I don't drink, mum,” said I in an effort to alleviate the situation, but she was in no mood for it.
Dad washed all the peelings, picked through them carefully then parboiled them on the stove for fifteen minutes. I was left in charge of timing them. Next, he drained the pot, emptied the contents on to a clean dish towel and patted them dry. After liberally coating the peelings with salt and pepper, he pulled the roasting dish from the oven and placed them all around the chicken.
Even mum passed comment on them as we tucked into our Sunday lunch, which meant dad's beer money was safe. She said they were delicious and no one argued with her. Mind you, there wasn't much mash to go round.
With hindsight, we McCains could have been millionaires as a result of my inefficiency with the knife. Instead, some other McCain, no relation, patented the idea of potato wedges and made a fortune from it. My invention. Mine and dad's. I'm still waiting patiently for my Eureka moment.
Mum was busy slapping lard all over the big chicken which was to be lunch, her sleeves rolled up to give her more purchase. From the window I could see my old man talking to his beds of beetroot, spring onions and Ayrshire potatoes; he was supposed to be cutting the grass.
“If you're bored,” said mum, now washing her hands in the sink, “you can peel the potatoes for me. And mind, that knife is sharp.”
I'd seen it done a thousand times but this was the first time such a task had been entrusted to me; but, being born in a kitchen, I wasn't about to be fazed by it. The spuds weren't Ayrshires but wax skinned, it was too early in the year yet for Ayrshires and of course they only need a firm rub under the tap so they can be eaten skins and all. Mum slid the chicken into the oven then went upstairs to change the beds and I set to with the blade, my tongue fully extended to help with my concentration.
I was happy with my efforts as I rinsed the peeled potatoes under the cold tap, and just about to take the peelings out to the old man for his compost pit behind the hut when he and mum entered the kitchen from different angles.
“Good God almighty!” exclaimed mum, dropping her arms full of bedsheets to the kitchen floor.
“What's up?” said the old man and me almost together.
“You could make chips with those peelings. Look,” she said, holding one up by way of demonstration. Turning to me she continued, “I'm sorry now I trusted you with this. That's almost three days’ worth of potatoes you've laid waste to.”
“Not to worry,” said dad, throwing me a sly wink, “we can salvage the situation.”
“I certainly hope so,” said mum, busying herself with the twin tub, “because if we have to buy more potatoes it's coming out of your beer money.”
“I don't drink, mum,” said I in an effort to alleviate the situation, but she was in no mood for it.
Dad washed all the peelings, picked through them carefully then parboiled them on the stove for fifteen minutes. I was left in charge of timing them. Next, he drained the pot, emptied the contents on to a clean dish towel and patted them dry. After liberally coating the peelings with salt and pepper, he pulled the roasting dish from the oven and placed them all around the chicken.
Even mum passed comment on them as we tucked into our Sunday lunch, which meant dad's beer money was safe. She said they were delicious and no one argued with her. Mind you, there wasn't much mash to go round.
With hindsight, we McCains could have been millionaires as a result of my inefficiency with the knife. Instead, some other McCain, no relation, patented the idea of potato wedges and made a fortune from it. My invention. Mine and dad's. I'm still waiting patiently for my Eureka moment.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and twelve collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and twelve collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.