JOHN MARTIN'S TALES

I wrote this column years ago but it’s been edited for this blog post.

Never let it be said that I am a culinary Philistine. I very nearly bought my wife Katherine a cow for Christmas.

I didn’t, of course. But only because I couldn’t work out how to gift-wrap it. Has anyone ever actually tried to wrap a cow?

The idea came after I glanced at one of Katherine’s cookbooks while she was making Knickerbocker Glories.

They were excellent, by the way.

What first caught my eye, though, wasn’t the dessert she was making but another recipe on the page.

Syllabub.

“What a funny name for a dessert,” I said.

“What, Knickerbocker Glory?” Katherine asked.

“No. Syllabub. Who, apart from the English, would call a dessert Syllabub? Spotted Dick I understand. Sticky Date Pudding I understand. But Syllabub?”

I rarely read recipes. My role in the kitchen is largely ceremonial. I provide moral support, lick the cake bowl when invited, and occasionally peel potatoes if diplomatic negotiations are successful.

Still chuckling at the name, I read the recipe aloud.

“This old English sweet was traditionally made with milk straight from the cow. The milk was poured from a height over wine, cider or ale…”

From a height?

That immediately raised several practical questions.

Did they bring the cow into the kitchen, or carry the ingredients out to the dairy?

And exactly how much height are we talking about?

Was normal cow height sufficient, or did they hoist the poor beast into the air with a block and tackle to achieve the optimum froth?

Katherine wisely ignored me.

After many years of marriage, she has developed a highly sensitive nonsense detector. Whenever it activates, she simply carries on cooking and waits for me to wear myself out.

It was at that precise moment I decided she needed a cow for Christmas.

Imagine the convenience.

Mixers. Measuring cups. Wooden spoons. Pots. Pans.

And one fully operational dairy cow parked beside the kitchen bench.

Need fresh milk for the Syllabub?

No worries.

Just wander over and… well… you get the picture.

Unfortunately, reality intervened.

I am not a practical man. Replacing a toilet roll is about the upper limit of my handyman skills.

How, exactly, was I supposed to secure a full-sized jersey cow to a kitchen bench?

More importantly, how do you gift-wrap one?

I struggle with square boxes. A cow has four legs, a tail, an udder, a head and a strong tendency to go “Moo” at inconvenient moments.

So the Christmas cow never happened.

Which probably explains why I’ve still never tasted Syllabub.

On the bright side, I’ve also never had to clean cow pats off the kitchen floor.