MOTHER’S Day is traditionally a Very Big Day in our family. Not because my sister and I are lucky enough to have a mother who is pretty unbelievable - in all senses of the word - but because it is one of the few marked occasions through the course of the year when my sister cooks for us all.

While the housemate and I like nothing better than cooking for friends and family, my sister regards it as one of those things you have to do every year…like visiting the dentist. It’s not that she’s bad at it - on the contrary, she’s an excellent cook who follows The Mother with her ability to prepare a meal without anyone knowing there’s any activity taking place in the kitchen, while the housemate and I use every pan and utensil and every inch of worktop.

The bottom line is that she hates it. Any more than two plates on the table is like fire on her skin and fills her with utter dread…not that you would ever know because like The Mother she maintains a facade of complete calm while cooking, while I’m racing from one end of the kitchen to another and cursing like Gordon Ramsay on speed.

Now, while The Mother takes the reins in the kitchen on almost every ‘average’ Sunday, we traditionally cater for Easter Sunday while my sister takes on Mother’s Day and New Year’s Eve.

For the past few years, it’s been all change as my sibling has managed to book a holiday to coincide with Mother’s Day which has meant a swap in dates - admittedly one was her honeymoon, so it would have been churlish of me to complain too much at the loss of Easter.

This year however she was careful to ensure her winter break got her back into the country ahead of the big day.

“We’re not getting back until Thursday,” she announced before they jetted off. “And it’s a very long flight,” she added, clearly hoping I’d relinquish my undoubtedly childish claim on Easter Sunday.

“Well at least the jet lag isn’t too back on the way back so you’ll be able to go shopping for everything you need for Mother’s Day lunch,” I replied steadfastly sticking to my guns.

When we popped in to welcome them home from holiday late last week, she glared at me through exhausted eyes. “We stopped on the way home to get bread and milk and beef for Sunday lunch,” said my sister thrusting a mug of coffee at me.

“At least I think it’s beef…I was too tired to see properly,” she added.

Arriving at lunchtime on Sunday, the house was an oasis of calm and apart from my slightly flushed sister all seemed perfectly in control.

“Can I do anything?” I asked helpfully.

“Cut the meat and tell me how much flour to use for the gravy,” she said.

“You’ll need a bit more than that,” I advised as she sprinkled the flour into her roasting tin.

“Bit more….bit more…maybe not that much,” I added.

“You’ve made it go lumpy…you’ve done that on purpose!” She hissed as her gravy rapidly solidified. “That’s it. I’m never cooking for you lot again!”