Ready, Steady Trow Maet!
Wid you believe A’m tae appear on Trow TV! A’m surely a trow celebrity. Dey axed me tae come on dir cookery programme, “Ready, Steady Trow Maet!”
Whit wid I cook? My first tocht wis reestit mutton an tattie soup. Meenie soon pet a damper on dat idea. “Steepin mutton in saat den dryin hit oot wid tak a whole series. Dey ony want wan programme oot o dee, so tink o something quick tae grab aabody’s attention.”
Meenie wis richt. So on da big day I packit my kishie wi some haddocks an dir livers, twartree tatties, an aald syrup tin an a hammer. I set aff wi a spring in my claa, confident my recipe wid cause an upsteer.
Wha wid I be cookin fornenst? I widna fin oot until we wir live on Trow TV. Hit wis a worry. Whit an affrontment if I lost!
As we waitin for da action tae start I hae tae admit I felt kinda kibby.
“Welcome tae Ready, Steady Trow Maet!” roared da presenter. “Tushie Truncherfaece, come du in, set de aside da fire an tell wis whit du’ll be cookin.”
I felt some een push me fae ahint an I glindered in da bricht lichts.
“S . . . Stap . . .” I stuttered.
“A guid traditional dysh Tushie, fae a very traditional trow. Weel, du’s up against dy very opposite danicht. Please bring on Tirval da Techno Trow . . .”
Noo I felt braaly kiddy. Da techno trows ir da ony breed transformed by modernisation. He wid laekly reestle up something fancy wi ingredients A’m niver even heard o. I hed nae chance.
“Noo, whit wid du be cookin, Tirval?” axed da presenter, “I believe du’s axed tae use an electric oven an a microwave, unlaek Tushie wha’s cookin on da paet fire.”
“A modern dysh o breaded haddock fysh fingers, thinly sliced oven chips an freshly processed peas feenished aff wi red saace,” announced Tirval wi confidence.
“Twa denners o Shetlan’s favourite fysh: da haddock. Dis will be a guid competition.” said da presenter rubbin his claas.
So we set tae wark cookin. Da audience jamp as I hammered holls in da lid o my syrup tin. I filt da tin wi da haddock livers den pet hit on tae boil. I fairly hed dir attention. Naebody saa Tirval wap his fysh fingers an chips in da oven. He set his tin o processed peas in front o him an glowered at hit. He wis laekly waitin tae turn dem intae freshly opened processed peas.
As Tirval sat I pared my tatties an rumbled dem in wi da tin o livers. Den I boiled da fysh in anidder pot. Boil aathing, you canna geng wrang.
Afore we kent hit, da presenter announced we hed five meenits left. I shappit my livers an haddock tagidder wi a grain o saat an pepper.
“Does du mak stap aften, Tushie?” axed da presenter.
“Yis, I hae dis doon tae a fine art,” I said glancin ower at my rival.
“An does du hae fysh fingers aften, Tirval?” axed da presenter.
“Aa da time. Naebody can cook dem laek me,” he said wi a sneer, afore opening da microwave an takin oot his nuclear powered peas.
Tension wis high. I arranged my stap an tatties on da plate an added twartree knobs o butter. Tirval laid his fysh fingers oot laek a fan an den squirted swirls o red saace aa aroond da chips. Da red saace contrasted wi da bricht green processed peas. His lookit fancy, but I kent hit wis doon tae taste.
“Noo for my favourite pairt o da show,” announced da presenter. “Time for a peerie taste.”
She dived intae Tirval’s denner wi her cutlery an glaepit a moothful in nae time. “Fine an crispy on da ootside but kinda weet an tasteless inside. Yon chips need da red saace for a grain o taste an I wis really lippenin mair fae yon glowerit peas.”
Den her fork headed for mine. As she showed her een widened. Did she laek hit?
“Bliss me, yon taks me back tae when I wis a peerie trow. Du’s seasoned yon afo weel an da tatties an butter is da perfect compliment!”
Tirval darted me a look dat could kill.
“Congratulations, Tushie! Du’s dis weeks winner!”
A’m been haein a rare time shaain aff my trophy. I joost hoop Meenie isna lippenin me tae mak da tay agaen danicht.