Flicking through the pages of my wife Lisa’s cookbook, I stopped at the recipe for Libyan lamb with couscous. I had to smile at the note Lisa had made next to it, saying she remembered eating the dish the night before our son was born, and the photo of our two daughters holding their baby brother that she’d stuck alongside it, too.
The book was filled with delicious recipes, each one annotated with Lisa’s handwriting, detailing the memories she associated with the dish. It was a book that always made me smile, yet it also brought sadness. Because, while it had so much of Lisa’s voice and personality on every page, it was a reminder that this was one of the few things I had left of her.
When Lisa and I started dating in January 1988, we were both students at Leeds University. Lisa, then 23, was studying Nutrition and Dietetics, while I was working towards a degree in Engineering. After graduation, I was offered a job in Aberdeen – working for an oil company –and Lisa moved to be with me. While at home, she started experimenting in the kitchen, flicking through cookbooks and trying out different recipes. ‘Taste this,’ she’d say, thrusting a spoon in my mouth whenever I walked through the front door.
As a dietician working with patients, she was already passionate about food, and with time she became more skilled, cooking delicious curries and stews.
In August 1990 we got married, and on November 1992 our daughter Sophie was born, followed by Molly in June 1994 and Luke in March 1996.
But even with three kids under the age of four, Lisa still found time to cook fresh meals from scratch every day, experimenting with different spices and tweaking recipes to make them her own. As the years went on, we all had our favorites. I adored Lisa’s chicken with olives recipe, while Luke loved his mum’s Scottish shortbread.
Denne historien er fra September 30, 2019-utgaven av WOMAN'S OWN.
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Denne historien er fra September 30, 2019-utgaven av WOMAN'S OWN.
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