I am a crap cook. I think it could be genetic. My mum is a pretty crap cook. I have fond memories of party pies and sausage rolls for dinner, not that I was complaining at the time. Who wouldn’t want party pies and sausage rolls for dinner when you are 9? My grandma is also pretty rubbish at cooking. She excels at ready meals which is the same category I would have put myself in when Grant decided enough was enough and we were going to cookery school! He sold it to me as a nice weekend away from London where we could do something together…and then went of snickering to himself… ‘tee hee…sucker’.

It was an inauspicious start. Firstly, we were struggling to even get to Ashburton in Devon where the cookery school is situated. Would you believe the trains were stuck because of high seas? Waves crashing over the train tracks? Well the railway line down to Devon was built in the times of Brunel and as you get to a little town called Dawlish, the sea is literally up against it, waves crashing up onto the platform! Not only was there sea water on the tracks but our train windows were actually getting hit by sea water!!!! There was a Virgin train stuck on the opposite track, broken down with waves pounding it and the cheeky buggers on our train waved at them as we went past. Cruel!

Needless to say, we got into the school much later than expected. The cream tea laid out for us which would have been lovely at 6 p.m now consisted of rock hard scones but the tea was fantastic…and with enough clotted cream on the scones, who cares if you break your teeth?

We were met by the cookery school owner, Stella, who is a powerhouse of energy. One of those short people who by sheer force of personality can appear to be tall. We got a seriously abbreviated tour of the 800 year old house in which we were to stay and cook before being left to our own devices in the kitchen.

Given we hadn’t learned anything yet, we went to the pub.

Now Ashburton is a pretty small town and the Exeter Inn is a real small town pub. That is to say the barman greets you when you walk in the door, someone has always brought a dog, and there is a strange man sitting by himself at the bar ordering half’s of ‘Badger’ and reading the newspaper. Anyone recognise this scene?

It was a small town pub, so we actually met some people! Whilst drinking badger beer (no really, that’s what its called) they explained the significant difference in terminology for ‘tourists’ in Devon and Cornwall. Apparently in Devon, a tourist is called a ‘grockle’ and in Cornwall he or she would be an ‘emmett’. How’s that for a fact you never wanted to know! To top it off, if you come to live in a small town from somewhere else, you are a ‘blow-in’. A lady told us it took 12 years to graduate from ‘blow-in’ status to ‘local’. She sounded pretty bitter actually. I think she hadn’t got the local nod yet.

But on to the cooking!!! We’d enrolled in the two day Beginner’s course, you know the one… where they teach you how to boil an egg? First off we met Darrin, the chef director, went through health and saftey and all that which included strict instructions about knives and gas cookers. “Hold the knife down to the floor when you are walking, never remove it from its magnetic rack at eye level and if you cut yourself, put pressure on it and come and get a plaster (band-aid)”. The plasters are highly colourful so not only do you suffer the pain of slicing into your digits, you also get to remind everyone of how stupid you are for the rest of the course with a iridescent blue dressing. I sense sadism in this trade.

Hey! This seems to be some kind of advanced beginners course! We are going to learn to poach an egg first!!! Bugger this boiling malarkey! We’re going straight for the hard stuff! I start brilliantly! My poached egg is perfect. Darrin comes up and says “That’s fantastic, who did that?”. “Me” I say in a humble little voice but inside, I now know I am TV celebrity chef material just waiting to be discovered.

Ah, but now we have to cut stuff up. This is the first time we are allowed to touch the knives and everyone is watching each other like hawks to see who will be the first to walk around like they are going to stab someone. Then we are given our first vegetable to cut up and no-one cares anymore. It’s an onion. I smell sadism again. Who gives a bunch of aspiring chef’s onions as the first thing to cut up?? Come on! Where’s the incentive?

Weeping profusely, even though I left the root on the onion as long as possible which is supposed to stop you crying, I got stuck into into bread dough, literally. Too much water. Then caesar salad from scratch onto which we plonk our poached eggs just before eating. I think someone else took mine because when I went to fetch an egg as my piece d’resistance, I discovered there were only crap ones left. Sneaky buggers.

Lunch went well and then we launched into dinner preparation. Tomato and basil soup, Chicken with leek and bacon cream sauce and finish up with a rhubarb and pear crumble. Grant started acting really professional saying things like “What are we be doing next Chef?” That’s what they call the head person in the kitchen you know. None of this ‘Darrin’ stuff any more. We are getting serious!

Then it all went horribly wrong. Darrin sniffed suspiciously. A look of horror descended over his face! He raced over to one of the cook tops and saw that someone had forgotten their sauce, which had been reducing for the last 2 hours and it was burnt!! He then unleashed a “FUCK!” that Gordon Ramsey would have been proud of, turned off the burner and stalked off muttering under his breath “All that time and effort. All they had to do was watch the bloody sauce”. Evidently you get in more trouble if you burn something than if you cut yourself however I guess it depends on how much you bleed into the food?

30 seconds later, with his game face back on, we continue. Things go from bad to worse. Darrin has to step in a rescue the crumble. My fingers are too hot and are melting the butter which is turning it into dough. Hot fingers?? I then take off too much of the pink stuff off the rhubarb so instead of a nice colourful filling, I have a pale grey mash. Grant forgets to put the pear in and has to add it late so he has a pink lumpy mash. Tastes alright though and from my perspective, that’s the main thing!

To compensate, Grant helps Darrin make little spider webs in the bowls of tomato and basil soup. Show off.

Dinner over, we run to the pub as fast as we can and slam down several pints of Badger! Somehow that just sounds wrong doesn’t it?

Day 2 and I discover another incredible skill I never knew I posessed. I can make AWESOME pastry. All around me I see other peoples pastry turning a nasty khaki colour and hear Darrin saying things like ‘You know, it’s going to get worse every time you re-roll it’. I roll it delicately and then trim the edges. It’s a work of art, people!!

But the same things happens again! Some thieving bugger takes my pastry and I get the one that Darrin uses to demonstrate how not to do it. ‘Don’t worry’ he says ‘It will eat alright’. Yeah, thank you very little, Chef.

Lastly, we make the roast lamb for lunch. Nothing bad happens which is a relief. I think if the Lamb got burnt that would have been the end of us all. We would have been sent home in disgrace with a big fat ‘failed’ stamped on our foreheads in red!!

But no! Grant and I go home in triumph with our heads held high and a spare quiche each to snack on later. I have a sneaking suspicion that I still can’t boil an egg….but given I can damn well poach one, I’m alright with that!

www.ashburtoncookeryschool.co.uk