A number of readers rightly gathered, from its brevity and the absence of culinary description in yesterday’s post, that I had run out of creative steam. For those concerned about the lack of sustenance, I can say that we had boiled eggs and toast for breakfast. On our knees of course. Well, on plates on our knees to be precise.
We had packed the egg-cups, but there is no end to Jackie’s ingenuity.
Offers of weekend help have come from Danni, Becky, Flo, and Ian. These have been gratefully accepted. We should have quite a party.
Meanwhile, I boxed up the contents of the airing cupboard and the shelves occupying the spare room; and cleared out the cupboard under the stairs. Those who know we live in a flat may wonder why we have a cupboard under the stairs. We are blessed with one because it is in the bathroom. ‘What?’ you may ask. Well, you see, the building underwent a vast conversion into its seventeen apartments in the 1980s. Our bathroom occupies part of what was the main entrance hall. The area under the main staircase provides us with the said storage space.
The more we achieve before the weekend, the more family fun we can have. Volunteer helpers, please note, you are required to bring your own wine and ale glasses.
One of the processes it is advisable to follow when moving house is that of emptying the freezer and the fridge. This is best done during the preceding days, so that the contents can be enjoyed and cooking be at a minimum. This makes for some fascinating platefuls. This evening we dined on sausage casserole (recipe), chicken Kiev, chips, and vegetables. And a very tasty melange it was. I drank Lion’s Gate Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz 2012, an extremely quaffable South African wine.
Incidentally, my younger readers may not be aware that when I was growing up in the 1940s, people owned neither fridges or freezers. This was particularly problematic in the summer of 1947, when tar melted in the streets. Butter and milk had to be stored in sinks full of cold water that soon warmed up itself. Runny butter dripping off hot toast, as described by Kenneth Graham in my all-time favourite, ‘The Wind in the Willows’, may be quite attractive. Rancid butter slipping out of its wrapper onto a dish before being poured on your bread is quite another matter. ‘Rancid’, incidentally remains one of Matthew’s favourite words, ever since I once used it when he was a child. You’d be really surprised at the number of uses to which the term can be put.
Another such versatile word usage was coined by Ray Chard, who once described a cricket ball that had been returned after being hit out of the ground, as somewhat ‘gnarled’. In our family this word did not have the longevity of ‘rancid’, but I hope Ray still uses it. I have been known to entertain the youngest Knights with it. You must admit it has a certain cachet.