The perils of presumption

[desperance]

So I was not expecting m'wife home before ten tonight (and quite reasonably so, as that's the time she told me); and I was wholly unclear whether to expect Jean & Roger, back from exploring the wines of the gold country on the fringes of the fire; so I roasted a lovely great slab of pork belly with a rub of fennel seed and chilli, and as no one had shown up or called by eight I was just going to make myself a sammich, so I threw together a quick salsa of shallot and garlic and tomato and the rest of that ghost pepper*; and I had the bread sliced and everything - and suddenly the boys are running to the windows, as they do when Karen's car comes home. And there was she, home early: and no, I cannot feed m'wife on ghost pepper salsa. So now I am making a bed of Puy lentils, and soon my pork must lie in it. And then Jean and Roger are coming round, with or without appetites, and there will be tales told of mountains bold and seeking gold** and such.


*People, I have tasted it. I expected to survive. That may have been the limit of my expectation, but survival, oh yes.

**Or wine.