It’s back. It’s time. Next to Awful Offal, Invalid Cooking is my most hated lesson. Managing the pointless task of teaching energetic, lively teenagers how to wash and starch a tray cloth, lay the tray and cook for an invalid. If it’s not a task for their practical exam, it could be on the written paper and they have to learn from our daft textbooks.
Cynthia mixes up Robin Instant Starch powder, my grandmother’s favourite brand, with cold water to make a smooth paste and dilutes it to the consistency of weak soup. There’s a pile of clean napkins waiting for them to complete this task.
‘Submerge your napkin in the starch, wring it out then hang in the drying cabinet to dry.’
Cynthia fires up the huge gas drying cabinets, and soon there are neat racks of napkins drying like a Victorian laundry.
Monday was my grandmother’s laundry day, when she washed and starched her sheets, then hung them to dry on a line in her garden. She spent the best part of an afternoon ironing with her ancient plug-in iron, which had no thermostat and could turn red hot. This laborious process meant she slept between the finest, glossiest sheets in Kettering, finished to a hotel quality of smoothness. We both agreed that one day, if I had my own family, my bed linen would be starched like hers, but we’ll see about that.
They’re gathered round my table for this dreary lesson.
‘Trudy can you read from the textbook please?’
‘Everything must look as attractive as possible to tempt the appetite. Spotless tray, cloth, crockery, cutlery and china. Introduce some colour – utensils, flowers and garnishes. Everything must be convenient to use – napkin, cruet etc. Serve dainty foods in small portions in attractive, individual dishes. Add flowers like tiny posies in small, low vases. Single blooms are best.’
‘Thanks Trudy. Here’s my tray laid out for you to remember if you get the question. Can you draw it in your exercise books.’
They walk around as if I am showing them some historical museum exhibit.
One starched, lacy traycloth, edged with my grandmother’s handmade lace, and a matching napkin on a side plate. A salt and pepper cruet set, a small vase with a sprig of holly from the school garden, a glass, a plate with a knife, fork and teaspoon. No room for the pot of tea, milk jug and sugar bowl.
‘It says in the textbook ‘All cooking must be done out of sight and smell of the sickroom, and should be a pleasant surprise to the patient.’ So I’ve already cooked the sort of meal you could serve FOR THE EXAM.’
Cynthia brings over a tiny portion of Egg Mornay, served in a scallop shell, with a bowl of finely chopped carrots. I sprinkle chopped parsley on top.
‘Garnish adds colour. There’s no invalid cooking this lesson as you’re learning how to iron a napkin.’
The room is filled with ironing boards, with their irons plugged into the black cables that dangle from the ceiling. Teaching teenagers to iron tray cloths is one of the most dangerous activities I undertake, and we patrol the room to ensure there are no play fights or games involving hot irons. Soon, there’s a pile of smoothly ironed, neatly folded cloths. INVALID COOKING is over for another year. They grumble out but next week they’ll make Egg Mornay for real.
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