IT BEGAN with a flyer through a friend's letter box that was headed "Ready, Steady, Cook (For Men)", a six-week cookery course run by a community centre in Dublin's north inner city. We liked the idea that there would be local head-the-balls there, that it was specifically geared at men with two left spatulas and - at the risk of sounding cheap - that it was free.

The cookery course, run by Georgina Granaghan, is hearty cooking, mammy-style: leak-and-potato soup, scones, queen cakes, minced beef and vegetable pie, Swiss rolls, apple tart and carrot cake, which is not nearly as wholesome as its name might suggest (but we'll come back to that later). These classes are part of the Adult Education Programme at the state-sponsored Lourdes Youth and Community Service on Rutland Street in Dublin 1, which has been going since 1984, an important enough grass-roots organisation for Bertie Ahern - burning some serious pre-election leather - to personally launch the LYCS website.

And the centre doesn't just do cookery. It has a full-time crèche for locals, a youth programme to help keep young people from getting involved in anti-social behaviour and drug use, a community training centre and the adult programme, which offers everything from guitar lessons and crochet to readingand-writing, computers? and cookery.

This was not a journalistic assignment. The idea to write about it only came later, in week three, and I felt uneasy going from participant to observer (with their permission). But I'm a terrible cook. I try, but my own 'Pasta Surprise' is a dish that sorely needs re-naming, if only because I've been rustling up the 'surprise' for quite some time now.

Jonny, a Harry Potter look-a-like and research assistant from Co Armagh who lives in Dublin 3, was the only other thirtysomething cookery student in our class of eight. It was he who suggested we attend the class after picking up the aforementioned flyer from his doormat. We worked in pairs and Jonny was my kitchen partner.

The other six participants were older. Paddy was a tall, quiet, man from the country who spoke little, but sometimes lit up with an air of amused alarm, especially if one of his dishes went awry. He paired off each week with Peter, an elderly gentleman who diligently whisked eggs and flour, and rolled dough with gusto.

Jimmy, a funny, outspoken character, worked with Paul, a wry fellow who'd crack a smile if you dropped your jug of milk into the bowl of flour? but would offer to spot you the Euro2 towards the ingredients if you had no change. Paul would also keep an eye on the 'pot' and firmly ask, "Who's shy?" Surprisingly, Jimmy worked as an army cook for 20 years, before returning to Rutland Street. "I will reinstate my life back in the kitchen, " he declared. So how long has it been since he's been cooking? "Twenty one years, " he replied. Another reason for his coming here: "It'll stop me bird from poisoning me!"

"You've been watching me, " Jimmy told me during one class. "You know I know my way around the kitchen." Paul seconded this. It's true. When Jonny and I were having trouble with our potato cakes, Jimmy urged us to wait for the blue haze to rise above them. And, lo! There it was. As Jonny remarked of Jimmy, "He has all these wee tips."

Paul is separated; his daughter moved out last year. Despite the fact that he fillets fish for a living, he still doesn't tend to cook for himself. "I want to learn the basics, but I'm no use in the kitchen. I've done the odd coddle and a bit of stew, but 10 years ago I put something in the oven and I burnt it, " he said.

"I haven't been near it since."

The last pair was Chris, a towering, giddy man who produced a baritone chuckle at the sight of all the butter, castor sugar and oil, who worked with Philip, a community worker who ensured the momentum never flagged. While we all examined a box of Irish stock cubes, Chris produced a bag of magic stock cubes from Nigeria, which had far less salt.

Although he has a heavy African accent, Chris insisted, "I'm from Dublin!" He lives in Ballymun, so always left at 9pm on the dot. "I want experience, if I decide to work in a kitchen, " Chris said, with a swirl of his hips. "I will add my own sugar to it." More swivelling. He obviously didn't mean the real thing. (For sugar, read pizzazz. ) Sugar, scones and survival Chris, Jonny and I were agog each week at how many Irish dishes have ingredients that are salty, sweet or just plain fattening. Carrot cake sounds healthy, like you'd be doing yourself a favour to scoff a couple of slices. It had carrots all right? plus six ounces of brown sugar and quarter of a pint of cooking oil.

That's right, a quarter of a pint.

This wasn't a class for slimmers. It was cooking for blokes, but not the biff-boff-bosh, woktastic Jamie Oliver school of seared salmon with radicchio, pancetta, pine nuts and balsamic vinegar. Our cookery course was sugar, scones and survival.

We had to go back to basics. Lesson one: the joys of a vegetable peeler and big plastic mixing bowls.

We had four counter-top cookers, each with four rings - it wasn't advisable to have all four on as the electricity flow could be temperamental - plastic aprons, several vegetable peelers, knives of varying uses and quality, cooking trays that have been blackened by many a sticky pavlova and the good-humoured, experienced Georgina as our guide.

Jonny and I got off to a bad start. It was I who dropped the milk jug, but blamed Jonny. ("Look what you made me do!") We gently fried our triangular-shaped potato cakes, poking at them as if they would bite. Then Jimmy got involved, insisting we could squeeze more into our pan along with our precious cakes. But worse was to come.

Shy Paddy - who, along with Jonny, was too shy for the photo - was tending his potato cakes. "We want them golden brown, " Georgina said. His were? black. Paddy calmly gave that look, which managed to strike a balance between serene and alarm at the same time. "That's what you call well-done, " Jimmy said, giving Paul a wink and an elbow.

But Carrotcakegate was to come. Georgina noticed Paddy's looked a little lighter than the rest. She hummed and hawed over it, but it wasn't going to get by her. "Did you put sugar in it?" she asked, turning on her heels. He'd put in self-raising flour, cinnamon, baking powder and - of course - some grated carrot, but he'd forgotten the sugar.

Georgina didn't miss a beat. Like a flash, she opened the oven, removed the offending mixture and scooped it from the tin.

She went into automatic pilot, kneading the mixture with her fists, pounding it into submission and sliding it back into the oven as if nothing happened. Paddy stood motionless. The rest of us loved every moment of the drama.

The infamous carrot cake wasn't so straightforward, postcooking, either. Whistling a ditty, I lightly greased everyone's tins. The cakes practically had to be cut out of them, every peel greeted by "ooohs" and "aaahs" as the carrot mixture stubbornly broke free. The icing was Philadelphia cheese, yet more castor sugar and orange peel.

On week three, Phil casually - but not accidentally - pointed out other courses on the board, like computers and reading-and-writing. It did strike me that reading-and-writing is just as basic a skill as cooking, but has a far bigger stigma, even if it's more related to education and circumstances than ability. But Phil flags these classes for a reason.

LYCS director Sarah Kelleher said non-function illiteracy is higher-than average in the north inner city and that it's more common for reading-and-writing students to come via other classes. She said that it's tough to get men through the door period: "There are very few men's groups that meet just to be around each other, without being issue-driven.

"There are a huge number of single men out there through divorce, and a lot of men who are isolated from their families, if they have them at all, who are cooking for themselves, " Sarah said. "There's also a lot of evidence of dependency on alcohol in the community, among men particularly, " she added. "There are a multitude of issues."

My least favourite dishes came on week five. Taking a rolling pin to a slice of white batch bread, sprinkling cheese and wrapping it in rashers we made - wollah! - bacon surprises.

"Not too much butter, " Georgina advised, "or the grease will ooze out in the oven." I looked at Chris, then Jonny. We knew exactly the other was thinking.

But the bacon surprise and salty potato cakes were a brief snack-break during our six classes. Georgina showed how to bake a mean apple tart, with feather-light pastry, give some kick to a mild Indian curry and told us the importance of putting a bit of elbow grease into it. And, no, we didn't go looking for that in the cupboards.

It was great watching Georgina in action. When we baked swiss rolls in week five, she warned us that they needed just seven minutes in the oven. As I whisked the eggs and castor sugar before folding in the flour, she peered over my shoulder.

"In about half-a-minute, that'll be nice and thick, " she observed.

(How on earth could she tell? ) Putting the roll in the swiss roll required us to down tools.

All our electric whiskers were turned off on our own rolls, whether we had achieved the required consistency or not.

Georgina used the tea towel to roll. She beckoned someone to help out, which made it a four-handed-rolling. "Neatly, " Jimmy advised, "like you're making your bed!"

At the end of the class, each pair smothered them in raspberry jam and cream (whisked by Georgina when nobody was looking) and cut the ends off to produce a professional jamcream-sponge swirl. But, as we worked in pairs, we had to cut them down the middle and leave for home with half a swiss roll hungrily tucked under each of our arms.

In week six, she helped us make lasagna. It was delicious.

She had saved the best for our final week. (Though, I must admit, the carrot cake was pretty good too. ) As she carefully broke the pasta to fit the round bowl - we didn't have a rectangular one - Jimmy remarked, "It looks like you're breaking the Communion bread." And he was right.

The last supper The classes were more about cooking. They were about a group of men who were young, old, employed, retired, single, married, inner-city Dubs, immigrants or blow-ins, who got along like we'd known each other forever. Whatever we may like to believe about our sharply divided, fast-paced society, we had more in common than you might think.

It was also revealing about men in Ireland circa 2007:

Jimmy wanted to brush up on his army cooking days, Paul - who was separated - found himself home alone with a cooker, Jonny wanted to fine-tune his baking, Chris wanted to make himself more employable and Peter merely wanted to take the time out for himself now that he was retired. Peter's wife is waiting for his first feast, though he is putting it off. "I bought a weighing scales and I have some other things to get, " Peter said, as we tasted our last supper, the final meal our class would make together. This was a rare moment of 'sharing' and the whole class was all ears.

"I'll be married 50 years next year, " Peter said. Phil raised his eyebrows with interest. Jimmy grinned. Georgina nodded vigorously with admiration.

Paul had a thought. "You could be in and out of the Joy 10 times in 50 years, " he said, "that's a long time to be on the cross."

We all creased up. But Peter just smiled and went back to eating his lasagna.

THE MENU
Week 1 Leek and potato soup and scones
Week 2 Minestrone soup and apple tart
Week 3 Minced beef and vegetable pie and queen cakes
Week 4 Mild Indian curry and carrot cake
Week 5 Potato cakes, bacon surprises and swiss roll
Week 6 Lasagne and tomato soup