Strudel Caboodle

Every family has its own collection of beloved anecdotes about familial misadventure and ours is no different.

The best ones centre around either my father injuring himself (in a surprising variety of fashion) or accidentally setting fire to his own timber clad garage having lit a bonfire too close and then there is my mum, who also has her moments, but these seem to be centred around her battle of wits with her oven.

She once overcooked a garlic bread baguette for so long that it was effectively cremated. We’ve called it Garlic Dead ever since.

Today, she skipped the flambe of the main course and went straight for dessert, blackening the name (and crust) of an apple strudel. What made this funny was her howl that followed the opening of the oven and she instantly knew that the children and I would milk this one forever.

She then doubled down on the Strudel Caboodle when she volunteered that she had disregarded Aunt Bessie’s finely honed oven-instructions (what does she know?) and left it in for longer than recommended.

Who could have foreseen the outcome?

Love you, Mum. You’re a legend.