reggae bars & Yorkshires
Mon 4th, Sep, 2017
well, the warming weather sort of ceased for a bit…I have the day off today and it’s cold, Australian cold not real cold (day off is following rather strange night which ended up in a reggae bar… ummmm would you like some advice from a person who is at the point of mid-life? unless you are either 1. seriously into reggae (unauthentic reggae at that), 2. in a place where reggae is real i.e. somewhere like Jamaica? 3. and not in a small beachside Australian town a ferry ride from Sydney, I would recommend you avoid a reggae bar at the end of the weekend. If you do find yourself, by some way of being carried along by 1. two offspring who are in their late teens 2. a woman in a very big fluffy boho jacket, definitely do not order a mojito and expect it be either 1. good. 2. affordable 3. in a glass.)
Yes, so I’m rugged up in bed (layers of quilts, spotty, eiderdown, floral) and it’s now in the afternoon, I cannot tell you how good it feels to do this. Marvelous. Marvelous. I am a woman who likes her bed a lot. When in it alone drinking coffee and reading books.
The next Monday
After that cold spot, it went warm again, yesterday it was 26C and today it’s been a very loverrrrrly Australian Spring day, where the sky is so blue and so clear, it could have been photoshopped that way.
I have only worked until after lunch today and an afternoon, to be quite honest, of doing nothing but sit on the sofa with Barls snoring on my lap, decompressing by way of dipping into my fave forum on my phone. After working both days over the weekend (and full time the week before that, get me a violin) to make sure my part of the deal was done, dusted and very much ready to go I drove home from a disappointing morning dealing with muppets – obviously not actual muppets, rather muppets who when you ask them to perform their job (half properly) they get a little huffily puffily and after being slow and training one of their employees (on your time) tell you that they have another appointment to get to and could you not be quite as detail orientated. All is good in love, war and patio digging.
Back home here I have found myself opening and re-opening the fridge trying to fill that afternoon hole and keep looking at the most gigantic puffed up Yorkshire Puddings I have ever seen and wondering if I could pour Golden Syrup on them with my Afternoon Tea. I must tell you that these Yorkshires were not only quite preposterously large, they were also not made by me (actually unbelievable). My for better or for worse other half has (because I have been unavailable) in the last few months had to turn his (rather nice) hand to the getting of food onto the table for a family without the use of 1. the Chinese Takeaway or 2. the bag of chips in the freezer or 3. an app whereby you click on a few things and fast food arrives at your door, miraculously, with or without the option of added beer, 24.3 minutes later
This getting of the food to zee table has been an eye opener not without some mishaps. It’s all rather process driven (why am I suprised) and is gone about in a rather formulaic manner – from the selecting (highly directional internet recipe search), shopping (curated to app) and cooking (lengthy step by step process involving many ingredients and spices from far flung corners of the world) to the serving (researched as to what is best, plate, cup or bowl).
I am not one known to complain (hahahahahah, I could have a gold medal, olympic level in it) when someone makes me dinner, after, having it as one of my Job Titles for oh the past 467 years, but I did get rather a shiver when the dinner was a ‘fish medley’ with lots of seafood (in the slow cooker, jeepers), though I did eat it (yep I was stupid enough to have it again the next week and yes the food poisoning did come, no it was not nice). The sausages and mash though was particularly tasty. The Pho was quite nice and rather a big accomplishment for a trainee but, to be quite honest, the roasts have been the best. I am not sure what process driven formula goes into the roast potatoes (though am informed they take a lot of work) but they are streaks ahead of mine and mine are good (and I mean English good).
But the ginormous Yorkshires, of which my goodness involved not only the collation and examination of the best recipes (Delia was at the back of the line) but also consultation with another process driven person by way of communication with a male blogger in the UK who documents whether or not the opening or shutting of oven doors, the temperature of the oil or whether the flour has been sifted or not makes any difference, were really really good.
I have no idea of the merits of any of the above. I do know my over-sized, smothered in Golden Syrup and stuffed down secretly with a cup of tea Yorkshire Pudding was most agreeable all round.
And with that friends I’m off to check if the muppet from this morning is ready to go in the concrete.