I love to cook for my kids. It's part of my internal template of 'being a good mother'; scratch cook where I can, and always have home-made cookies or cake in a tupperware container on the counter-top. What can I say? I blame my own mother for being the ultimate domestic goddess. Well, that and the fact that living with two children with allergies means that many pre-made and processed foods are - literally - off the menu.
So, in a moment of madness, I actually kept the chicken carcass from yesterday's (shop-bought) roast chicken, thinking, 'Ooh - I can make stock with that! We can have chicken noodle soup, and... chicken noodle soup, and... some other stuff I can't think of right now.' Then, I realised I couldn't remember how to make chicken stock, so looked up a recipe.
I reached the part where it said 'simmer the bones over a low heat for up to 3 hours' and was suddenly assaulted by the memory of the smell of our kitchen 9 years ago, when I was making chicken stock whilst weaning Boy #1 and following the lovely Annabel Karmel's advice to the letter. Most of her recipes were wonderful. Chicken stock, however, proved a bridge too far. The house stank, I stank, the streets outside were tumble-weed central. I swear the whole neighbourhood was on lock-down because of that ruddy stock.
You know what? I think I forgot that very simple recipe - the chicken bones, cold water, a few veg, a bit of salt & pepper - for good reason.
I will do many things for my children, but it seems that here is one that I won't. Life is too short to make my own chicken stock.
And I never much liked chicken noodle soup, anyway...
What is your parenting limit?
