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I've had my fair share of culinary disasters, but I really want to share my favourite family story, and that belongs to my Dad. Back in the early 90s when he couldn't cook, my Mum went away for the weekend.

Dad 'made' my sister and I quiche which he must have found in the very bottom of our chest freezer. It was rank... even after 30 mins in the over it was basically a pastry case with raw egg and bits of ham floating around inside.

Being just into my teens and newly aware of things like food poisoning and salmonella, I refused to eat it on safety grounds. My younger sister did likewise. My normally mild-mannered Dad had obviously had a hard day looking after the pair of us and blew his top, saying we always ate what Mum put in front of us (well yeah, that was cooked...!) and banning us from leaving the table until we'd cleaned our plates.

Terrified of dying due to consumption of runny quiche and unable to call Mum in the days before mobile phones, we sat there with tear streaked faces for two hours until Dad admitted defeat and sent us to bed.

The next day Mum returned and the second she got through the door I ran out and shouted: 'Mum, quiche isn't supposed to be runny, IS it?' Mum just turned to Dad, raised one eyebrow and said: 'What have you done now?!'

These days, my Dad is a thoroughly modern man who makes a mean spaghetti carbonara. But we like to remind him often of the worst weekend of our teens and 'the day he nearly killed us with his cooking' :o)

Way back when I first started cooking at home, my wife and I made a recipe out of Fine Cooking magazine. It was a pretty simple pasta dish with cheese, crushed tomatoes, garlic, italian sausage, and pasta. Pretty simple stuff.

This time I decide I'm going to make it myself and surprise her after a hard day at work. I survey the recipe, make at the grocery list and procure the said items.

All fired up, I start measuring out all of the ingredients. Took the sausage out of the casing, get the water ready for the pasta, open up the crushed tomatoes, and mince four cloves of garlic.

So I'm mincing, and mincing, and mincing. True, I was very new to the kitchen so my knife skills weren't that good. Dude, this is taking forever! How do these old Italian women stand this? No wonder they spend all day in the kitchen, they're mincing garlic! I bet you this operation took an hour. My eyes are on fire, my fingers stink, and I'm wondering why I even embarked on this ill-conceived journey.

I finally get everything combined and it looks just like the picture in the magazine. With a bag of iceburg lettuce and the best frozen garlic bread $2 could buy, dinner was now served. My wife was pleasantly surprised by my motivation to cook dinner. We sit down and eat.

I take a bite.

She takes a bite.

"Whoah! What in the hell is that?" she said (and I thought).

"That's got some serious garlic in it! How much did the recipe call for?", she asked.

"Four cloves, and it took forever to mince.", I replied.

"What took so long?", she wondered.

I go over to the garbage I show her the leftover garlic skins.

"Oh, wait a minute.", I said

I will conclude this story by saying the whole dinner went in the trash and I now know the difference between a clove and bulb of garlic.