‘It’s way better than Spicey Ricey,’ the oldest one says, referring to our traditional Sunday supper of leftovers tinged red with paprika

Tim Dowling: The kids have made risotto. Should I admit it’s delicious?

My wife and I did not spend Valentine’s Day together – we were both busy, and anyway, my wife has decided she doesn’t recognise the occasion. But when I come downstairs the next morning, I am surprised to see a large bouquet of flowers in a vase on the kitchen table, and another on the windowsill.

“I got you roses,” my wife says.

“You did?” I say. “Thank you.”

“White,” she says. “For cowardice.”

I make no reply. Eventually, my wife stops cackling.

“Made myself laugh,” she says.

“What are your plans for today?” I say.

“I’m going to that big garden centre,” she says. “What about you?” I think about this for a moment.

“I’m coming with you,” I say. She thinks about this for a moment.

“I’ll allow it,” she says.

A few hours later we arrive back home with a bunch of plants, but it’s not gardening weather. My wife retreats to bed with a book, and I go off to my office shed to pretend to work. An hour slips by, then another. The rain pours down outside.

When I return to the kitchen at sunset, I find the oldest one and youngest one making risotto. To the untrained eye this might look like a charming domestic scene. To me, it’s like watching two monkeys assemble a catapult. I blink a few times, in wonder.

“Since when do you make risotto?” I say.

“Since always,” says the youngest.

“I’m surprised you’re not more interested in risotto,” says the oldest.

“It’s actually very easy,” says the youngest.

“I know how to make risotto, thanks,” I say, wincing, because I don’t really like saying the word risotto.

“And it’s way better than Spicey Ricey,” the oldest one says. He is referring to our traditional Sunday night supper of leftovers tinged red with paprika.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say.

“Spicey Ricey is not very nicey,” says the youngest, ladling stock into the pan.

“Spicey Ricey basically is risotto,” I say.

“No it isn’t,” says the oldest. “You can’t make risotto with regular rice.”

“Listen to yourselves,” I say.

The next day everyone eats lunch together, at an hour arrived at through tireless compromise.

“If it’s chicken for Sunday lunch, you know what that means for supper,” my wife says.

Tim Dowling: our weekend trip to Devon has gone into reverse Read more

“Please not Spicey Ricey,” says the youngest.

“Why don’t we just have risotto?” says the oldest.

“If you want to make it, fine,” my wife says.

“Fine, we will,” says the youngest.

In the afternoon the weather clears up enough for me to attempt to replace a crumbling section of trellis with a new section I bought the day before. I’m frustrated to discover, after a complete search of the house, that I only own one nail.

“It’s ridiculous,” I say, walking into the kitchen. “I used to have sacks of nails.”

“What are we talking about?” says the oldest one as he chops a celery stalk.

“In the end, I had to pull the bent, rusty nails out of the old wood, and hammer them straight,” I say.

“Where is our Stilton?” says the youngest.

“We don’t have any,” I say.

“Or any soft, blue-veined cheese,” he says.

“What for?” I say.

“For the risotto,” he says.

“You can’t put blue cheese in risotto!” I say.

“We’re cooking, not you,” says the oldest.

“Please don’t do this,” I say.

“Get out,” says the youngest.

An hour later my wife is staring doubtfully into a pan of risotto.

“Am I allowed to eat it in front of the telly?” she says.

“Of course,” says the oldest. My wife and I take our bowls and sit down in the next room. The other two stay in the kitchen with their laptops.

“It’s delicious,” she says.

“Actually, it is,” I say.

“Are you going to tell them?” she says. I put my feet up on the low table in front of me, either side of yet another vase of white roses.

“Eventually,” I say.