episode 441
In which I am undone by the generosity of friends.
I wake, at about 05:15 this morning, with the realisation that all is not well. My body feels hot - too hot; feverish, almost, my limbs tired and a little achey, and my head is gently pulsing with that not-quite-a-headache-but-definitely-not-an-absence-of-pain that can mean only one thing: I have a hangover.
Me: The king of clean living, have, what I believe is referred to in certain louche circles as A B*stard Behind The Eyes.
The cold virus which has been the source of much comment of late appeared, this weekend, to fade (helped, no doubt, by Fridays medicinal Appletini or two), and by Saturday was an 0645 wakeup so I could take the car to the garage for the annual Checkup, followed by a day spent tidying and getting my house (both literally and figuratively) in order, including a little work on a story I want to submit to a writing competition, and so a couple of drinks whilst preparing dinner seemed allowable. D had gone to the Cirque with our friend Marcelle, so I was alone Saturday night, and spent it with a couple of Gin & Tonics and the latest Kylie Live DVD (X2008) - a brilliant show quite nicely recaptured on DVD.
Was still up when he got home, and, by the time we’d chatted for a bit, and he’d watched a few of my fave bits of the DVD, it was a late(ish) night, and I wanted an early start Sunday, cos C, S and their baby puppy Ellie were coming for lunch, so, all in all, it was another not-as-much-sleep-as-I’d-like weekend.
But it was so worth it. C S and E turned up dead on time, and a very happy lunch was had, stretching into the early evening. I’d made Pork Stroganoff, which (if I do say so myself) was really tasty, a potato and parsnip gratin from “Nigella’s Christmas”, but which I tweaked by using less Star Anise (‘cos I’d run out, and so had Tesco and adding Nutmeg and Cinnamon (both of which I had in the cupboard.)
A treacle tart was made (the only drama occurring when I realised that I had bought Treacle at the store, when the recipe called for Golden syrup. Is there a difference? I’d never made the tart before, and didn’t want to risk it, so D was dispatched to the shop to buy Golden syrup, which means my Treacle purchase gets me a Black mark in the Frugality stakes. Talking of which, this weekend’s Tesco shop came in at £40.57, for which I have enough food and drink to feed the two of us all week, by y reckoning, and may actually have enough to get me into next weekend too.
So, anyways, the Treacle tart: It’s not exactly brokering peace in the middle East or anything, but the sense of achievement I got from making the thing from scratch was immense. It was sweet, and stodgy and very very rich, and the pastry was crisp and buttery, and, despite everyone’s protestations that it looked way too rich, and only give me a little slice, it was eaten (though I do still have a third of it in the fridge, along with the jug of cream needed to make it perfect.
But there was a point, mid morning, with Mozart on the stereo (a very well chosen Christmas gift from T+J) and me bu-bu-bu-bubuming along when I realised that I had three (or was it four?) half done dishes, and time was passing, and the panic set in, and I had to stop, switch off the music, put down the coffee, and remind myself You can do this, and besides, It’s only food. Nobody will starve.
The music went back on, one more swig from the mug of coffee, and, sure enough, inn fifteen minutes, things were more or less done, and it was just a case of ‘Let it bubble and bake, and go do something else.’
Then the boys arrived with an amazing Late Christmas gift - a Gourmet Hamper from their recent trip to Northern France, it was filled with Walnuts and almonds, chocolate, a prize-winning Red Wine, a nut-flavoured vinegar, caviar, pate, pickled pimentos (no sign of Peter Piper), biscuits, a Confiture d’Abricots et Framboise (aka Raspberry and apricot Jam - see: things even sound better in French), the most delicious smoked garlic, and tons of other delicious goodies.
Which, of course, meant that the salad of blue cheese (St Augur, donchaknow), walnuts and bacon which I had mooted, and then ditched as the deadline for lunchtime approached, was back on the cards, and, with freshly shelled walnuts, C’s help with chopping and pan frying bacon, and a dressing made using smoked garlic, a little sesame oil and the nut-flavoured vinegar, we sat down to lunch at about two, listened to cheesy pop music, discussed ideas for marketing my book (which has yet to be written, but it pays to think ahead), and for creating what C (the marketing genius) referred to as “Alternative revenue flows,” which makes sense: If I go to publishers with a good book, I’ve got a chance of getting published; going with a good book and some ideas on marketing, makes your case even stronger. It says: I’m professional about this; I want to help you make as much money as you can from this book.
But the chat, the food, the second viewing of half of the Kylie DVD, the gentle snoozes (by some of our group - we’re all getting older), the facebooking and mocking of some ex-boyfriends (I can’t believe S ever went out with a Ricky Gervaise lookalike) and the booze - Oy! The booze - left me a very happy, incredibly blessed and rather inebriated little boy.
Guests gone home, I ironed shirts (domesticity will always invade), tried to finish tidying the office (and gave up), and set myself some goals for this week - to get back to the gym (now the worst of the cold has passed), to iron a few more shirts so we don’t have that panicky Do I have a shirt for work? moment just before bedtime, to continue with TFP, to finish tidying the office, and to get a bit more writing in. All doable, and, when the panic sets in, I just need to remember the stroganoff, treacle tart, gratin that would never be done on time, and turned out perfect.
And then, with that decided, I fell to bed just before midnight.
To awake at 05:15, with… oh but that’s where you came in…