(More) evidence that Fran's performance in the kitchen has been inconsistent

'What are you cooking for dinner?' my daughter asked on the phone one evening last week. 'Mince,' I said. 'Savoury mince?' she said. 'Don't call it savoury mince,' I said. 'That makes it sound like something that you'd serve in an old people's home, or perhaps feed to a dog.' Awkward pause, then she said, 'You called it savoury mince all through my childhood.' 'I did?' I nearly asked, 'And was it? Savoury?' But I dared not, because when my husband and I look back we realise that we subjected our three children to a wide range of poor cuisine as they grew up. We overcooked meat, leaving roast chickens in the oven for hours until they'd have made credible weapons for hand to hand combat. We overcooked fish, wrapping it in foil and baking it for so long that all moistness fled for its life and the white fish turned grey as though in despair at what had happened to it. We overcooked vegetables so that