I’m convinced my mother tried to kill me through foodborne illness.

Not intentionally, of course.

But twice a year, on average while growing up, I’d spend a couple of days on the couch, passing liquid out of both ends, while mom comforted me with flat ginger ale, crushed ice (we even had one of those kitchen necessities — an ice crusher, in groovy pink, suitable for early 1970s suburbia) and soothing words like, "It’s just the flu honey, you’ll feel better soon."

As Lisa Simpson remarked upon hearing about the demise of her cat, Snowball, from her mother, "She lied, she lied."

The worst was when I was 10 or 11. I was playing AAA hockey in my hometown of Brantford Ont., and we were off to an out-of-town game. My parents (bless them) usually drove, but obligations meant I had to get a ride with a friend on the team. About half-way to the arena, I started feeling nauseous. I tried to ask the driving dad to pull over, but it came on so fast, I had to grab the closest item in the backseat, an empty lunchbox.

I filled it.

And more.

Today, New Zealand’s Food Safety Council is promoting its don’t-poison-mum-on-Mother’s Day advice, encouraging inexperienced cooks to ensure they are hygienic and clean if and when they try their hand in the kitchen on Sunday.

"Those wanting the perfect day for Mum may be creating kitchen treats without much experience so it’s important for them to carry out the food safety basics."

Happy Mother’s Day to my mum. And to the mum I live with, we’re going with smoked young goose on the grill, stuffed with apple and citrus, served with champagne and chocolate.