But I’m not. I have sat here for the past two hours doing what makes me feel comfortable and happy, escaping into a world of words. My own. Others. It doesn’t matter. So long as it’s not Nigel’s/Nigella’s/Delia’s which will send me into paroxysm of anxiety about what I ought cook for lunch today. And why I oughtn’t. (Mainly because although it looks lovely on the page, it probably won’t on the plate. Largely because I had a hand in it.)
We are having Lasagne because even I have trouble getting that wrong. We can’t get mince meat here but we can get thigh of cow or back muscle or something that’s astonishingly tough but masquerades as beef all the same. I borrowed a mincer and my son’s bowling arm – becauase it’s great deal stronger than mine – and we minced meat in manner of real pioneers.
I have not considered what to do for pudding. Amelia has suggested a marble cake (too seventies) and Hat cheese muffins (too, well too cheesy mainly). Chocolate mousse would be nice. If I could get cream. Pavlova is beyond me so perhaps fortunate I can’t get cream; last time I made it in absence of baking parchment I substituted the Sunday Times Review pages which stuck to the bottom so everybody could read Jeremy Clarkson aned India Knight when conversation got a little stilted.
When I first got married I offered, because I thought that’s what expat wives did, to make a pudding for my hostesss one Sunday lunch. I made what looked lovely, an orange cakey affair, and what was, in reality, leaden and disgusting. I begged husband to exhibit loyalty by eating at least a slice since everybody else was giving orange frisbee wide berth. By the time he was on 7th slice (and seventeeth beer to wash it down) I grew suspicious. Under closer inspection I noted he was bringing spoon to mouth and then deftly tossing over shoulder. I was red faced not only because my offering was so disgusting not even pissed Husband could force it down, but because now evidence of my culinary failings lay in pile behind him.
Perhaps we’ll ditch a pudding today.
These are tobacco farmers after all, they can have communal fag instead.