Farmer’s wife wearing her baking scars with pride

Mrs Downs Diary
Mrs Downs Diary

Wear your scars with pride.” That unlikely quote was told to me by a friend noticing the latest set of scabs across the back of my wrist.

The scars refer to the white strips criss crossing my arms, all inflicted by a vengeful cooker. The Aga scar as it is referred to by the cognoscenti apparently.

At the time she had just glimpsed the latest wrinkled brown desiccated remnant of dried blood under the edge of my jumper.

I was pulling down the ends of my sleeves over my wrists to keep it out of sight. Plus to provide some protection against knocking the top of the scab off. Result of which is only to kick start a new round of healing and an even more definite white scar to add to the pattern.

It’s true that when I use my daughter’s cooker and accidentally knock the top of my arm as I take out a roasting tin for example, it does not inflict the same damage as my cast iron behemoth.

Perhaps it’s me. I am clumsy. The stains on the stair carpet where I slop tea as I take John a cuppa in the morning plus the stains on all the rest of the carpets where I just slop, drop anything and everything.

“You’re a walking disaster area,” John commented. Good job I can borrow my daughter’s carpet cleaner on a regular basis.

My excuse is that farmer’s wives probably cook more roasts for example and other meals that are actually cooked inside the cooker.

My daughters and their friends predominantly use stand-alone slow cookers for stews and curries, woks for stir fries, steamers, grills and deep fat fryers.

They even have electric tagines and couscousiers. I am amazed they have work surfaces for all these things, never mind the cupboards to store them in. And they enjoy the occasional takeaway or ready prepared meal.

Our pace and way of life does revolve around the kitchen. We have the luxury of working from home and therefore taking most of our meals at home.

The nearest shop is about five miles away so there is no popping down to the end of the road as both my daughters can to replenish or find a must need item for a meal.

Mind you I can soon rustle up an omelette by rummaging under an obliging hen or two. And yesterday a cockerel with a suicidal bent made a very tasty lunch after he made the rash decision to start roosting on the top of my car each night.

However, my clumsiness has been eclipsed. John has done something that if I had done it, there would never been an end to hearing about the calamity.

Reversing a trailer, he misjudged. Knocked over a wall, two old dog kennels and killed a recently planted wisteria I was training to climb the said wall and hide the dilapidated kennels.

His explanation? “That wall and the kennels were in the way. They needed to go.”

His scar on the farmyard will soon be healed.