ACCORDING to a new poll, fathers are less prone to cooking disasters than mothers, who have, traditionally, come out on top in the family kitchen.

Dads are now also more likely to be more creative in the kitchen compared to mums, who admit to sticking with dishes they’ve cooked before.

But are mums still queens of the kitchen?

Here, two Sunday Post writers give their views on whether dinnertime now belongs to dad…

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I know I’ll resort to fish fingers – Ali Kirker

“DADS outshining mums in the kitchen!” screamed the report.

Yes, it told me that dads are more creative and less prone to cooking disasters than poor old mums.

Dads are turning out culinary masterpieces, while mums are just not cutting the mustard in the kitchen.

Dad’s meals are so good, we don’t know whether to eat them or simply admire their beauty.

Far be it from me to ridicule this clearly deeply scientific study. Because in my house that happens to be true.

My husband is one of those strange people who can take a few sorry-looking ingredients that should really be binned, throw them into a pan with some herbs, spices and magic and it all somehow comes together perfectly.

In fact, when he’s working back shift and won’t be able to make our evening meal, he sits our three kids down and solemnly tells them that I’ll be on cooking duty for the week ahead.

I would say he’s got a cheek but I feel as sad as my kids look. I know one night I’ll resort to fish fingers or cheese on toast. And that my kids will send me several texts during the week telling me they won’t be around for tea because “something’s come up”.

Yeah. A McDonald’s.

But let’s be honest. Isn’t that the exception rather than the rule?

Yes, there are many dads out there who are fantastic in the kitchen. But I reckon that, if my friends and workmates are anything to go by, the vast majority of times it’s the mums who do the drudge cooking, the day in, day out stuff.

The grind of getting food on the table among working, housework, helping with homework, ironing and shopping.

Even deciding what to make every night can feel like hard work.

You think you’ve hit upon a recipe for success and then you hear the three words you dread as a mum.

“Gone off that.”

Oh, for goodness’ sake.

Is it any wonder we might come to consider Aunt Bessie or Uncle Ben a dear friend?

Whereas when many dads decide to get creative in the kitchen, it’s An Event.

They have the luxury of an age to decide what they’re going to cook.

Of pondering which feast they’re going to come up with next.

Of telling you all about it.

And then pouring themselves a civilised glass of wine and disappearing into the kitchen for a couple of hours.

By the time they’ve finished, there’s a trail of destruction that looks like Primark at closing time on a Saturday.

So I’ll take this survey with a large pinch of Himalayan rock salt.

Now, there’s only one question left and it’s for my husband.

What’s cooking tonight?

I’ve taken a turn for the Jamie Oliver – Stephen Gallacher

THAI green curries? No worries.

Edamame peas? Prepared with ease.

Courgetti-spaghetti? You bet-ti.

Over the past few years I’ve somewhat unexpectedly become the culinary king of my household.

Previously the limits of my gastronomic experimentation extended to firing two different flavours of crispy pancake on a bap for dinner. Avec crème de salade, if I was feeling fancy.

Recently, due to boredom, and a blood-pressure reading resembling a decent cricket score, I’ve taken a turn for the Jamie Oliver and gone all healthy, and a wee bit adventurous too.

While I’ve switched from bacon butties to broad beans though, my other half has been left for gastronomic dust.

My missus is a great cook but frankly she’s never even tried to spatchcock my poussin, no matter how many Nigella cookbooks I scatter around the house.

So are women being left behind in the kitchen by newly-adventurous blokes?

Not on your nicoise salad. Yer mammy’s home cooking will ALWAYS rule the roost.

Forgive me for sounding like a Hovis advert but when I were a lad, it was a plate of stew or meat and two veg for dinner.

On a special occasion she would brew up a cauldron of home-made soup so big it could have nourished the south side of Glasgow for a month.

Alright, sometimes the lentil broth was thicker than the cement they use to keep the Forth Bridge floating away.

And often the veg was boiled until it assumed the consistency of broccoli-flavoured air.

But modern Dads can spiralise all the shallots they like – it’ll never beat a plate of ma’s sausages and chips.

One of the things I miss about my late mum’s cooking is the slightly
too-watery mince she made.

I’d whinge about the raw onions she’d mash into the lumpy potatoes. These days, I’d shell out Michelin-star prices for that particular meal one more time.

Dishes like that, with their own individual quirks, run like a thread through childhood.

Somehow I doubt my nostalgia glands would be excited had mum plonked down a bowl of Jerusalem artichokes with a side of pickled kumquats when I was a grubby tyke.

So let us menfolk think we’re the new Marco-Pierre White, we’re just being show-offs.

Who knows, maybe now we’re comfy in the kitchen we’ll begin to get involved in the less sexy aspects of housework and, instead of whipping out the whisk, we’ll haul out the hoover a bit more?

In years to come it won’t be dad’s duck confit the kids will remember, it’ll be maw’s mince and tatties.

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