LITMIR.BIZ

      “I’m making chicken!” she announced.

      “Oh,” said Casper, worried. “It looks very dirty. What have you been doing with it?”

      “I might have dropped it once or twice, but it’s fine. We always clean the floor, right?”

      “I’ve never cleaned the floor.”

      “It doesn’t matter, Casper. Floor bits are tasty.” Amanda flung open the oven door, threw in the chicken, slammed it shut and grinned. “Simple as that. I’m a natural!”

      The door swung back open and broke right off its hinges, tipping the oven forward so that the grubby chicken tumbled out on to the floor and rolled under a cupboard.

      “Oh…” muttered Amanda. “Is that meant to happen?”

      Casper sighed. “Forget the chicken, Mum. Let’s try beans on toast.”

      “Beans on toast! That’s easy.” She perked up at once and bounded back over to the stove, grabbing the nearest saucepan and thumping it down on a ring. Into the pan she threw two slices of stale bread and a tin of baked beans (unopened), then she stepped back with hands on hips, chest puffed up proudly. “There. I’m not completely useless.”

      “Um…”

      You see, being a mum is a difficult job. It’s much easier, on balance, to sit in front of the telly and munch biscuits. Amanda Candlewacks made this discovery eleven and a half years ago, shortly after the birth of her bubbly blonde-haired son called Casper. She’d only get up from the sofa during advert breaks or weather reports, and that would only be to fetch biscuits, use the toilet or have another baby (which only happened once, and Amanda was furious about it because she missed the latest episode of Granny’s Skin Complaints).

      But two months ago the telly broke and, left alone in the house with Cuddles, her screaming baby, Amanda was faced with a problem. You see, televisions have ‘mute’ buttons and you can change the channel when you get bored, but even the most up-to-date babies can’t boast those features. So she was forced to be a mother for the very first time in eleven and a half years. Strangely, she quite liked it. Not so strangely (for someone who’d been sitting in front of a telly for over a decade), she wasn’t very good at it.

      “Dad, can’t you help?” pleaded Casper. “You’re a chef, for goodness’ sake.”

      Julius didn’t look up from his toilet paper. “Was a chef, Casp. Was.”

      “Whatever. Couldn’t you cook our dinner?”

      “I’m busy, can’t you see?”

      Casper sighed. Two months ago Julius Candlewacks’s restaurant had closed down due to bad press and a small explosion, and suddenly he’d found himself without a job. Never one to give up, he jumped on the next bus to High Kobb, took out every single book from the food section of Kobb Central Library, staggered home and announced to his family, “I’m writing a celebrity cookbook!”

      “Which celebrity?” Casper had asked.

      “Me, of course. I’ve been a chef for twenty years; now it’s time to pass on my knowledge.”

      “What knowledge?” Casper had asked.

      But Julius wouldn’t hear a word of it. From that moment on he spent every waking second poring over exotic ingredient lists, copying down useful pages and growing steadily more angry about younger chefs’ successes.

      Today was no different. “Look at this potato gratin, Casp, just look at it.” He waggled a loose page from Vinnie’s Veg across the room. “It isn’t even properly seasoned! That’s it. I’m taking this one. He doesn’t deserve it.”

      “Dad, you can’t just steal other people’s recipes.”

      “I’m not! Mine’ll have more seasoning.”

      Casper rubbed his eyes. “Never mind. Where’s Cuddles?” Normally he would’ve heard screaming by now, or at least felt that characteristic stabbing pain as his feral baby sister bit him on the ankle.