One of my current projects is to teach my son to cook.
"I can cook pizza!" he protests.
"You are unwrapping it and heating it."
"I cook curry!"
"You take of the cardboard and pierce the lid!"

We have made some progress already. He wanted chicken, although he was afraid to touch it, so I advised him to cook the portions whole and chop them when they looked less fleshy. He enlisted the help of his 9 year old sister with the chopping of vegetables, and poured a jar of sauce over the top, leaving the whole thing simmering for half an hour or so. However, he washed everything up straight away which is, to my mind, one of the most exciting things about the whole meal.

Tonight, we're having rice-bake. I don't thing he can claim to have a fear of cheese, one of the main ingredients of the dish.

I've tempted him into the cookery by telling him of the charm of a man who is able to prepare good food. Nice eyes and a good sense of humour are one thing, but there is something special about those gentle actions performed lovingly, like tending a garden or preparing food. Some time ago I lived near to Maidstone Barracks and was amazed when a friend commented on how lucky I was to live so near all those squaddies. I have always believed in Peace as the only way forward; even as a child I would relieve Action Man Dolls of their uniforms and make them civvies.

My son is, on the whole, coping very well with being the only male in the house. My eldest daughter took my youngest three girls into a shop the other day where, being very out-going, they told the lady behind the counter about the rest of the family: "Mum, two ugly sisters and a brother who looks like Jesus!"
In my eyes they are, of course, all beautiful.