Firepig

[desperance]

I did something last night that I almost never do: I roasted a joint. A piece of pork, to be precise, on a sort of ratatouille-bed of red onion and smoked garlic and aubergine and courgette and red pepper (which I keep forgetting the word "ratatouille" and ridiculously thinking of it as a bouillabaisse, I think because it made a base and cast off a bouillon). For the last hour, I lifted off the crackling to crunch it with the potatoes at the top of the oven and basted the meat below with balsamic vinegar.

It was om-nom last night, and will be again. And again, and again; that's a lot of meat for a fiver. Right now I am thinking pork in my noodles for lunch. And tomorrow I can bake bread and there can be sandwiches. And, and, and...

And meanwhile, Gerry has just dropped off all the stuff I left round at their house after I cooked the duckstravaganza. Boxes'n'boxes of stuff; no wonder my kitchen's been looking so tidy, half of it wasn't here. The boys are delighted; there are boxes! Full of interesting things! And they are boxes! And they have blood-spatter - dogblood-spatter! - where poor Max had cut his ear in a fight. And are boxes!

I suppose I ought to unpack them, really. Find places to put stuff. Sigh...