Man in kitchen: Ken Gibbs

Some glimpses of a wasted culinary education:

You’d think that working for UNICEF, you’d become familiar with matters nutritional, but this may only apply to a small minority of those males employed by the organisation. For some obscure reason, females – generally speaking – are hardwired to feed families.

First attempts included learning that – when at university – even if you were not interested in food, it was essential to eat something from time to time. Accordingly, one had either to live in a varsity residence which never seemed to encourage budding Michelin chefs to try their hands, or to live in ‘digs’ and cater for oneself.

So it was that I found myself in digs with minimalist furniture as befitted a penniless student, finding that self catering came less expensive than periodic forays to the local MacDonalds or the equivalent. Investing in cheap pots and pans might have encouraged me to try my hand – but the best I could do was a ‘spag-bol’ as it was known because none of the locals could pronounce either ‘spaghetti’ or ‘bolognaise’.

As I didn’t rise to investing in a kitchen timer, I found that I had to test the spaghetti to avoid the al dente form – or worse still – blotting paper consistency. The fact that I am still alive, attests to my hardiness.

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Some years later, when we had been posted to Mozambique in a failed attempt to get me to resign from the organisation, my son was paying us a visit during his university years. His mother alleged that he was a far better cook than myself, so I invited him to demonstrate the perfect spag-bol.

Happily, my wife was visiting elsewhere, so my son and I had the kitchen to ourselves. I had put out the ingredients which were inspected and found to be generally the right ones with a rider – the tin of chopped tomatoes looked as if it had been damaged in transit, but as it wasn’t actually dribbling any contents that I could see, battle commenced. All appeared to be going swimmingly, but I should have known better. Having one male Gibbs in the kitchen is usually disastrous, so to have two of them. . . . . . .when it came for the chopped tomatoes to be added to the mix, my son pierced the tin-lid with a sharp implement whereupon a dark red pressurised fountain hit the roof above. Need I describe the scene ? Perhaps not, as it was akin to the latter stages of the Battle of Agincourt where the battlefield was being cleared of the dead.

Panic set in as the time for my wife to return approached because washing ‘down’ the roof was quite messy. We actually brought the garden hose into the kitchen. I choose not to repeat what my wife had to say when she saw her kitchen. Need I say more than that my son and I had to source some paint to cover the roof before the landlord came to visit.

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My son had gleaned an interesting approach to lighting a Bar-B-Q which was effective even though the first time he demonstrated it, I had visions of having to call the fire brigade. Having loaded the Bar-B-Q with charcoal without any kindling, I wondered how he was planning on igniting the charcoal bed. He disappeared inside (was it for matches ?) and appeared out with aerosol under-arm deodorant, and a lighter. I was puzzled.

He took the aerosol in one hand and pressed the spray head while holding the flaming lighter in the other. The spray became a flame torch immediately which was directed on to the charcoal which caught alight quite rapidly. I was surprised that he didn’t lose his eyebrows, but felt that, on balance, his university career was adding some useful skills to his Curriculum Vitae. For the curious – don’t emulate my son’s skill set – the aerosol accelerant is highly volatile and flammable.

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Winding the clock back to our arrival in the UK in 1972 – before joining UNICEF – so it was a period preparing for the adventure of UNICEF, yet to come.

Trying to provide my wife some relief, I decided that I would go fishing. After all, fish are good for the brain-cells, so we are told. You can read about it at: https://xunicefnewsandviews.blogspot.com/2022/08/fishing-for-compliments-ken-gibbs.html

Actually, my wife was the cook in that piece, and I only appeared in the kitchen soaking wet and dripping (and completely naked) in response to her screams. Not the way in which I would normally come into the kitchen even if I weren’t the cook.

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Moving on to the period post UNICEF, when we happened to visit good friends near Canterbury in England, occasioned by our attendance at a Goddaughter’s wedding. She – the Goddaughter that is – was marrying a Jamaican and her household was given over to the prospective in-laws, so we were farmed out to stay with a former WASH colleague a few miles away. On the morning of the wedding day, our colleague provided the breakfast of cereal followed by boiled eggs and toast.

For the many XUNICEF cooks who might be reading this, I noticed that some of the eggs had cracked, leaving the pan with white strings everywhere. Being an honoured guest, I did not comment on this despite it being something that really shouldn’t happen in a well regulated kitchen. I filed the intelligence away for later use.

The wedding was wonderful. The bride and groom were obviously made for each other, and the visiting in-laws excelled themselves with their speeches. Everyone happy as a result and nobody fell asleep at their table.

On arrival back home, I paid a visit to our local kitchen shop which has most everything one needs in a kitchen, and more. I bought a simple egg-prick and sent it to our host and hostess with a brief explanation of what it is and how it works. I don’t think my colleague has ever really forgotten the event – or forgiven me. He has used it to make some very ribald insinuations. . . . .which you can probably guess.

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Ken Gibbs can be contacted via kengibbs1941@gmail.com

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