The Landlady revises her dinner plans
My Japanese lodger, who has been with me since May, has decided to go self-catering for her final month. As far as I can ascertain, this involves eating many sandwiches, accompanied by copious amounts of green tea. Not a great deal of catering required then…
My other lodger, who arrived on Tuesday, is a Group Leader from Italy who’s stayed with me many times before. I had a bit of a memory failure as far as he was concerned, and prepared a home-made pasta meal, followed by a delicious home-made cake for the evening of his arrival. I had totally forgotten that this particular guest subsists on a dubious diet of cigarettes and whatever the house ale the King & Queen is serving these days. He smokes like a stack of chimneys, as opposed to just one chimney stack and likes staying with me because I’m not too precious about having smokers in the house, The Boyfriend being a major offender in this respect. My Italian guest seemed very impressed with my huge conch-shell ashtray, sourced on a beach in West Africa, although I’m sure no conch shell in existence would be big enough to house all his butts.
On the same night, The Big Daughter refused my offer of dinner and The Big Son sent me a last minute text saying he was eating out with his girlfriend, accompanied by a smiley face.
As The Small Daughter and I tucked into pasta and cake meant for five people, my face was far from smiley.
“The Small Daughter and I tucked into pasta and cake meant for five people”
There is a good side to all this as, when The Small Daughter is not here (she’s at a festival this weekend), I do not have to make dinner for anyone and am now largely free from the drudgery of the kitchen for the next three weeks. Although I love my food and actually secretly enjoy cooking, I simply can’t be bothered to prepare anything extravagant for one. Therefore the home-made cake and pasta have been relegated to the freezer drawer for emergency purposes.
Last night however, with the kitchen free of the self-caterers, who do no visible catering whatsoever, I invited The Boyfriend round for a romantic dinner. We ate steak and creamy mustard sauce with bubble and squeak cakes and curly kale. We also alas, drunk our own body weight in wine, thus rendering me about as useful as a chocolate fireguard today. Moreover, a couple of hours after we’d eaten, The Boyfriend was hungry again and went out to buy a kofte kebab in Preston Street. While I’m trying not to take it personally, I’m beginning to think I should perhaps revise my menus…
