Dad opened a beer, grabbed his comfy camping chair with the little bottle holder in the armrest and set up shop in my head for the day.
Oh, how he laughed from his star in the universe!
Over and over, on a loop, played one of his most oft-issued pieces of advice: you have a good idea? Lie down until it goes away.
The irony is that, for some weird reason, this idea popped up when I was lying down, in the murky moments of transitioning from sleep to sort-of-awake, and then stood up and took hold as the day wore on.
Many hours ‒ a full day, in fact ‒ were spent weighing up the pros and cons, return on investment and step-by-step visualising how the mission would be accomplished.
It wouldn’t be a cake walk, and a fair bit of back pain would be involved, but no pain no gain, right? And really, how hard could it be? With careful planning, the most demanding task would be some mashing and a bit of frying.
Here’s the vision. I would make a massive batch of fish cake stuff (a brief retreat to piscatarianism) and fry fish cakes. The long-term payback would be popping some out of the freezer, all separated by wax-paper wrapping to cater for varying degrees of hunger, and a healthy, tasty meal would be on the plate quicker than you can open a tin of pilchards.
Most of the mix is made from boiled vegetables mashed up and then mashed again with pilchards, eggs and crumbs. I even bought frozen veggies to minimise time spent standing and chopping.
Because it was going to be a big, painful mission, I figured I should make a lot so I could grit my teeth and get through it for the quick-n-easy convenience of “later”.
There’s a huge stock pot of fish gloop and a frying pan. And, dammit to hell, not a single “cake”. They plopped in the pan with ease, but one wave of the egg lifter and they split their sides. Plenty of fried crumbly bits, but no cake.
As dad “looked on”, laughing hysterically, clasping his jiggling belly trying not to topple off his heavenly chair, I leaned on the counter, simultaneously easing the back stabs, next to my huge pot of fish gloop and joined in. What else to do? It was fried omelette-style (can’t make those either) and put into plastic dishes to be frozen and used as filling for baked potatoes. Or something. They did, after all, taste good.
I hope I don’t die before I manage to get through the gloop: I would be humiliated if anyone found this stuff in the freezer.
I felt a bit like the government: that vast disconnect between plans, policy and implementation. Unfortunately, I couldn’t act shocked, set up a commission of inquiry, form a task team, vow to do better if elected as chief fish-cake maker, and promise a better life to all. Except possibly the dogs if they don’t defrost as envisioned. They clearly loved the smell and camped out in the cramped kitchen, oblivious to my woes.
Now I’m going to lie down. No ideas, just a morphine-level pain in the back.
- Lindsay Slogrove is the news editor
The Independent on Saturday