Cookery writer Marguerite Patten would have been 100 in November if she hadn’t died in June.
Marguerite was the bane of my life as a newly-wed many years ago. Truth was, cooking bored me, and my ma-in-law saw it as a personal affront that I hated spending hours over a hot stove.
“I got you a present, dear,” she said one year, smiling slyly as I unwrapped an MP cookbook.
“Thanks Dorothy,” I said, “but why not give it to John? I’m starting work next month and I won’t be around to do the cooking.”
Her face was a picture.
Marguerite was the bane of my life as a newly-wed many years ago. Truth was, cooking bored me, and my ma-in-law saw it as a personal affront that I hated spending hours over a hot stove.
“I got you a present, dear,” she said one year, smiling slyly as I unwrapped an MP cookbook.
“Thanks Dorothy,” I said, “but why not give it to John? I’m starting work next month and I won’t be around to do the cooking.”
Her face was a picture.
