That's suicide in my book, or at the very least tempting fate, with chocolates. Mind you, I suppose most of them have had their children and the retard race is perpetuated, so from evolution's point of view their rôle has more or less ended and they can be subtracted from existence without prejudice. There's no justice.
(Handy hint, from Jacques Pepin via Julia Childs: finely mince the garlic on a board, chop in the parsley, and then crush the lot into a pulp with the flat of a decent heavy knife. Gives a good paste, and cleaning-up entails no more than wiping down the chopping board - no more faffing about trying to get the stringy bits out of the teeny holes of the garlic press.)
End of the aside: I just tossed all the chicken meat I could find on the carcass into the faithful Kenwood (25 years we've had that thing, would you believe, and it's still going strong) along with the few roast potatoes that were left and a couple of teaspoons of curry powder and whizzed that up, then chucked in a chopped onion just for good measure. After which it gets mixed with a very thick bechamel and loads of chopped mint, for fun, and then goes into the fridge to wait.
Whatever, finally found the time on Friday to go off and have lunch with Sophie. (Problem with seeing a teacher: their hours are kind of unreasonable, especially now as the end of the school year approaches. The last time we made a date she had to cancel about 15 minutes before I left, due to some sort of meeting being called. A right bummer.) A little place behind les halles called la Bohème attracted her, with its private courtyard and all, so that's where we met up. A shame, really, that it was pissing down, because that rather ruled out our eating outside under a parasol, but never mind.
The only reservation I would have about the place is that there are only the two women who run and own the place behind the counter, cooking, taking orders and serving, so the service is a bit random and depends on who's chatting to whom. But still, I'd go back. The furnishings, not to mention the plates, cutlery, and glasses, are a rather eclectic collection - as though they'd gone to a brocante and got one item of every set - but it somehow hangs together and makes a cosy setting for a light meal and a long chat.
And also to catch up on Beckham's sex life, which is always fascinating. I'll spare you the sordid details, some of them are a little unbelievable: maybe she just makes them up to humour us, in an attempt to brighten the sad lives of two middle-aged gentlemen. Wouldn't put it past her.
So that was Saturday morning taken care of, in a long and lazy manner: this did mean rushing home to unload the car and get a dessert ready before even starting to think about lunch, for we were invited to Mumblefuck for dinner and that meant getting there before 18:00 if possible so as not to miss out on the apéro.
Luckily the weather stayed relatively fine, because the rising damp in Karen's house has finally become sufficiently bad that the landlord's insurance have decided to shell out to have something done about it and this involves all the wallpaper being ripped off, three huge dehumidifiers being installed around the house and sundry other inconveniences, and on top of that Philippe's mother has been moved into an old people's home and so room has to be found for all her furniture and there's the aunt with Parkinson's to be taken care of ...
The occasion, apart from swapping bags of books and stuff, was that Reiner and Hildegaard were heading back to Germany after holidays in Aix-en-Provence. You could be forgiven for thinking that they'd stepped out of a Wagner opera and they do in fact look the part: Reiner's about six foot and built to match, and Hildegaard kind of looms and would make a very good, if rather cheery, valkyrie.
In real life he spends his time on the road, driving lorry-loads of used tires from Stuttgart to Manchester (who'd've thought there was an occasion for arbitrage in old rubber? Seems German used tires are still good for another eight months life in the UK) and she runs a translation business. And they both have a double life and turn up at quilt shows, which is how Margo and Karen met them.
Luckily, I find that if the pork chops are covered in enough chili sauce, no-one's going to notice the odd bit of drool and blades of grass in the marinade.
|Not all French-women are slim sex-objects|
Anyway, I have to go and sharpen Jeremy's knives before his exams: they're in an appalling state. What do they teach the yoof these days? See you.