I’m not sure why people bother to cook. I mean, I know why cooking is necessary. Without it, we’d all starve to death and I don’t think I’m being too controversial when I say that would be a shame.

But it’s so hard!

I watched a couple of daytime cooking shows on the television. There it seems easy. Celebrity chefs laugh, make interesting asides, all the while adding a pinch of this, a teaspoon of that and a smidgeon of the other. No mess. Paintwork glistens, kitchen surfaces gleam and then, suddenly, a magnificent dish appears as guests drool, studio audiences cheer and credits roll.

No food preparation (those diced onions appear as if by magic).

No washing up.

Trust me: the real world is very different.

I mention this because I got into an argument with Dad that went something along the lines of:

Him: Vegetarian food is rubbish.

Me: No, it’s not.

Him: Tofu and quinoa salad. That’s not for human consumption. It’s rabbit food and I wouldn’t even wish it on a rabbit. Even if that rabbit was my worst enemy.

Me: Dad, you’re talking rubbish. You don’t know any rabbits, friendly or otherwise.

Him: But if I did, if I knew the worst rabbit in the world, the evil genius of the rabbit kingdom, the master rabbit terrorist, I wouldn’t wish tofu and quinoa salad on it.

Me: I can’t believe the garbage you’re talking.

Him: I know. I’m having difficulty believing it myself. But answer me this: if humanity was meant to eat lettuce, why weren’t we given teeth like tombstones and long, floppy ears?

Me: Dad, I’m thirteen and you’re … old. Can we both start acting our ages? Vegetarian food is tasty, delicious and good for the planet. Anyway, your ears are a bit floppy.

Him: Eating meat is part of human nature. Vegetarian food might be good for the planet. I’ll give you that. But it is disgusting and that’s why you don’t have vegetarian drive-throughs. Can I super-size your lettuce? Would you like pulses with that? Get real, Rob.

Me: I’ll prove you wrong, Dad. I’ll cook you a delicious vegetarian meal tonight, something so amazing you’ll probably give up steak forever.

Him: You’re on. Tell you something, Rob. With a claim like that, the steaks couldn’t be higher! Geddit? Steaks? Stakes?

Me: That’s it. You’re banned from computer games for the rest of the day.

Mum gave me money to get the ingredients from the supermarket, but she didn’t offer me a lift there. Instead, she muttered something about learning what it’s like to run a small part of the household without any help. Or thanks. I believe she was in something of a grumpy mood, so I avoided arguing.

Instead, I looked up a recipe on the internet, jotted down the ingredients, walked ten minutes to the supermarket, and spent thirty minutes tracking down the stuff I needed. (If you don’t know your way around a supermarket, it can be a scary business. There are probably people who went in there for a kohlrabi and never emerged again. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find a human skeleton in among the frozen peas.) Then I walked fifteen minutes home (the bags were heavy and slowed me considerably), unpacked, and spread out the recipe on the kitchen counter.

To be honest I was exhausted already, but now was not the time to give up. I mean, how hard could it be? Just follow the recipe. It couldn’t be rocket surgery. Or even brain science. I had this under control.

Did you know that if you don’t spread a thin layer of salt over sliced eggplant, the vegetable will taste bitter? The salt draws out moisture, so you have to keep it draining on kitchen towels. Unfortunately, we were out, so I used toilet paper. Not a good choice. The paper basically dissolved. Have you ever spent an hour picking small pieces of toilet paper off sliced eggplant? Of course you haven’t. You’d have to be an idiot.

I wish to draw a veil over the next three hours. At one point Mum came into the kitchen and asked if it was my mission to use every single pot and pan in the household. I would’ve got angry at her sarcasm, but looking around it was obvious I had used every single pot and pan in the household. It hadn’t exactly been my mission, though.

At seven o’clock I put a casserole on the dining table and called Mum and Dad. They sat and examined the dish. Dad prodded it with a spoon.

‘Is that toilet paper?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I lied. ‘It’s vegetarian lasagne.’

‘It looks like charred toilet paper on the top.’

‘C’mon, Dad,’ I said. ‘That’s a secret ingredient. And, anyway, who in their right mind could identify toilet paper, charred or otherwise, in a casserole? You’d have to be some kind of sick person.’

I spooned out a good helping for each of us. Breaking the crust of the lasagne was something of a challenge, and when I did it produced a strange smell, which I tried to ignore.

‘Enjoy,’ I said.

We each took a small bite. Three spoons clinked against three bowls. Dad stood and reached for his car keys.

‘A veggie-burger with large fries for me,’ I said. ‘Maybe an apple pie for dessert.’