Challenge 29 - Feeding Father Foreign Food

My Dad is a meat and three veg kinda guy. In short, he won't eat anything that can't be found in a British hospital cook book.

I break the news to him gently: 'Hey Dad! How 'bout Moroccan for dinner!' 'Moroccan what?' he asks. 'Food,' I say. He blinks a couple of times as the information filters through. 'Sure, Love. Sounds good.'

Yeah, right. Time to show him a whole new world of Funtastic Cuisine. I make the trek into town and stop at supermarket. They have rabbit, pigeons, African spices, you name it -no but no lamb mince. Go to Woolworths. No rabbit, no pigeons, no African spices - and no lamb mince. Go to butcher. Look for lamb mince. Baarp! Strike three! Do I really need to borrow gun and raid nearest sheep farm?

'Got any lamb mince?' I ask the butcher. 'Why?' Okay, smart guy. I'll play your silly game. 'To cook with,' I answer sweetly. 'Hey, John. We got any lamb mince in the freezer?' John scratches head. Does he know where that hand has been? 'I think I saw some a couple of weeks ago. Try on the bottom.' Welcome to the country - where the food is Always Fresh!

I pay an horrendous $15.99 and take home my prize. Dad will eat if I have to sit on his chest. Enjoyment optional. (Of meal, not sitting.) Pop equal amounts lamb and beef mince into pan. Go to find Moroccan spice mix I bought couple days ago. It's not there. I send everyone out in co-ordinated search. Nothing. Nada. A big zipparoo. I have small tanty in the pantry. All spices bought that day are missing.

No problem. Calm thoughts. I know spices ... can make my own! Mix up a bunch of stuff and throw into pan. Feel very witchy. Tastes so good I spend a moment in stunned silence. We're back on track!

Next, vegetable and Haloumi skewers. Everybody likes food on a stick. Everybody worth knowing, that is. Slice off part of my fingernail and some finger below it. Search through veg. Can't find flesh. Oh well. Some lucky punter gets extra protein.

Finish skewering. Family look dubious. 'Look!' I cry. 'Finger Food!' Colour and composition perfect. I am a craftsman. Cook skewers and pop into warming oven.

Now, where's that flatbread ...?

Flatbread missing. Presume worst - the spices knocked it up and they've run away together. Either that or that pesky rip in the space/time continum has struck again.

This time I have tanty in the kitchen in front of family. 'It's all ruined!' I cry. 'Flatbread is integral!'

Mum hands me a glass of red and pats shoulder. 'I'll whip some up, shall I?' Mum starts mixing flour and stuff. I start drinking.

Mum looks at flatbread. 'Well,' she says, 'It's flat, alright.'

Flatbread a disaster. Almost transparent, like cooking pancakes with plain flour. So I've heard ...

I remember skewers. They are burnt and horrible. Pick a piece of Haloumi off and drop it onto bench. It goes clunk. Tastes burnt and hollow, like my soul.

I boycott meal in favour of more red wine. Boys eat Moroccan sloppy Joes.

'That was great, Love,' says Dad. 'Wouldn't want it every night, though.'