He's always staring in the fridge and cupboards with a wistful expression on his face. He doesn't really understand how food works. He can't make that leap of imagination that turns ingredients into meals. Many times I've heard him wail,
"There's nothing to eat in this house!"
Yeah - nothing to eat except bacon, onions, fruit, cheese, eggs, cereal, potatoes, rice and tins of fish, beans and tomatoes.
I blame his ma, Pearlie, who was/is notoriously bad in the kitchen. Pearlie hates cooking and one of the joys of her old age is that she doesn't do it any more. In the days when she had to cook her preferred method was to throw something on the pan, set the gas to high, and go off and do something more interesting instead.
Today Bert was pacing around, sighing and looking wistfully into the fridge so I told him I'd make bacon sandwiches. That cheered him up and he headed out to poke at clematis or something. Ten minutes later he returned to find the kitchen filled with a blue reek. "Ha!" he jeered, "I see you belong to the Skirly Pool* of cooking."
Isn't it great when someone tries to slag you and it backfires?