Story 1: Green beans in Delhi

This one is a Daddy-sized story.

I’d been on planes and in airports for a full day and I was shattered. I was also hungry. Dressed in sequins and dangly earrings, I found myself in the ballroom of a glitzy hotel in Delhi, India, at the ‘grown-ups’ table of a gala dinner – with the dignitaries.

Did I mention that I was hungry? As I chitchatted and smiled and batted my (fake) eyelashes, I tried (and failed) to drown the grumbling of my furious stomach.

Hours later, after many speeches and much fanfare, a platter of green beans was placed reverentially before us. I waited my turn and speared one with my fork. Popped the entire thing into my mouth and chewed…

Now, you may have guessed the punch line. But here it is anyway: It was not a green bean. I was in India for the first time, sitting next to the former Minister of National Intelligence, and I’d just eaten a green chilli, pretty much whole.

I ‘cried’ from my eyes and from my nose and from places I didn’t think manufactured actual tears. My lips swelled up. I didn’t see steam coming out of my ears, but I’m confident it was there. And even as I write this, years later, the 230 little hairs inside my nose (which I burned off that evening) and the 4000 remaining tastebuds on my tongue tighten up with remembered trauma.

You need not know the intricate details of what happened next, but the fact is: The esteemed dignitary I was chatting to will remember that green bean. My mouth, eyes and nose will remember that green bean. And you’ll remember that green bean.

Story 2: The rabid raccoon

This one is a Mommy-sized story.

There’s nothing like arriving in a foreign country after 17 hours of travel, fiiiinally dragging your suitcase into your hotel room… and realising that your DIY baggage “lock” (a plastic cable tie, because you don’t trust zips or humanity) is the one thing standing between you and clean clothing.

The nearest pair of scissors is, of course, at reception. Many floors down. Behind a gaggle of needy tourists and a receptionist who wants your room number all over again.

What do you do? You chew through that bad boy like a rabid raccoon, that’s what. I’ve done it. Once in India and once in Indonesia. (My teeth are fine, but I cut my lip both times.)

You do this and you’re sorry about it. Your mouth hurts. Until, ta-da, you remember the humble nail clipper. Small. Sharp. Allowed in cabin baggage. Built for snipping. And suddenly, you feel just like Tony Stark. Only sweatier. (And significantly poorer.)

Story 3: Can’t cook, won’t cook

This one is a Baby-sized story.

The other night, my husband asked me to make supper. His request was an act of huge optimism. We’ve been married 18 years and I’ve made maybe five suppers in that time. Because no one wants to eat what I cook, especially me.

He said, “Just do something easy.” That was the brief. And what appeared on the table was technically food. It was leftover fillet, which I’d microwaved, with cucumber on the side. But it was not what he’d imagined. He got all bleak and said, “I know I said easy, but this – this grey meat – is too easy.”

I didn’t season the fillet or dress the cucumber. It didn’t occur to me. Because I don’t live to eat. I eat to live. “Something easy” means wildly different things to different people. My husband briefed me thinking I was capable – or imaginative – enough to use the airfryer, add butter…all the things.

My husband was wrong.