I grew up in a large suburban house at the end of a long drive, in Wellington, New Zealand. My grandpa lived three minutes down the road and on Sundays he’d come up for lunch. My father and he would have a beer and if I was good, I’d get a tiny diluted glass too. I felt like I was one of the guys.
I was the youngest of three, and I remember feeling gutted when I was about nine and my two older sisters, Rochelle and Julia, started doing other things on Sundays. They were both dancers, and as they got more serious and started doing competitions, a big roast was the last thing they wanted to eat.
Our house was upside-down – three storeys high, with the bedrooms downstairs, and the living area and kitchen up top, because of the views. You could look out over the neighbourhood, the park and the distant hills. I’d keep an eye out for the local football team playing – if they were, I’d hop on my bike to go watch the match.
Our home was a busy place. We all did gym and played instruments. My mum was always making things. She had a sewing area on the mezzanine above the family room and would make costumes for my sisters and their friends. She was famed for inventing the perfect tutu bag. I was often her mannequin, which wasn’t always a good idea – she once made the whole class headbands, using my head for size, and they were all too big.
My mum’s creativity carried over into her cooking. She had a huge scrapbook of recipes from Woman’s Weekly, and she liked to experiment with interesting Asian flavours. By the age of six, I already knew I didn’t like hoisin sauce or caraway seeds. She usually put the latter in her “Long Island goulash” – which was beef strips with penne – and I liked it best when she didn’t.
All her dishes had names. Hawaiian fish (curry powder-crumbed fish with pineapple), sloppy pork or crispy pork, steak and macaroni slice (like a mincey ragu with macaroni elbows and parsley). Every now and then she’d make her chicken cobbler in the large yellow Le Creuset that she otherwise kept on the breakfast bar as a biscuit container – its heavy lid deterred young biscuit thieves.
I loved being in the kitchen, seeing how it all worked. I’d sit there for hours, watching her cook. My mother coached gym and I remember one night watching my dad making stir-fry while she was out. I told him he was cutting the veg too big. I was chuffed when my mum came back and told him the same thing. From about nine, at my own request, I cooked once a week for everyone.
My fondest childhood memories are those of us eating together. I still blame the ballet for breaking up my family gatherings. René and I often invite friends and their kids over on a Sunday. I want to give Eli and Marlon, our own boys, that love of being together. Maybe one day they’ll create their own memories for Sunday lunch.
Chicken cobbler
Serves 4-6
1 large onion, chopped
2 small carrots, diced
A handful of mushrooms, sliced
110g bacon, chopped
30g butter
4 chicken thigh fillets, cut into chunks
240ml water
2 tbsp cornflour
¼ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp black pepper
240ml milk
50g cheese, grated
For the topping
225g self-raising flour
¼ tsp cayenne pepper
½ tsp salt
240ml milk
45g butter
120g cheese, grated
1 Saute the onion, carrots, mushrooms and bacon in the butter until tender. Add the chicken and saute until cooked, then add in the water.
2 Combine the cornflour, nutmeg, salt, pepper and milk. Add to the chicken mix, then stir until thick and smooth. Pour into a large, shallow casserole. Sprinkle with the cheese. Keep warm.
3 Set the oven to 200C/400F/gas mark 6. For the topping, sift together the dry ingredients, rub in the butter, and mix to a scone dough with the milk. Knead lightly. Roll out to about 15mm thick. Cut into discs about 6cm across. Arrange these on the warm chicken mix. Sprinkle with the cheese.
4 Bake for 15-20 minutes, or until the scone tops are golden. Serve hot.
Miles Kirby is the co-owner and chef-director of Caravan restaurants in London
