desperance: (Default)
M'wife and her mother have gone off to Hobee's for lunch, while I dash about doing the thousand-and-one things I have to do before I head off to Launch Pad at oh-god-awful in the morning. My lunch is happening on the hoof and on the fly.

Do you hear me repining?

You do not.

My lunch today is thick slices of last night's slow-smoked pork shoulder, in a couple of the sesame-seed buns I baked to go with the barbecue, with a few lettuce leaves from the farmers' market and mustard ditto ditto, and a couple of tomatoes picked fresh from my garden. So fresh they are still warm all the way through, I am just sayin'. (These are the black ones, which we have figured out: when they have gone from green to black, they are not ready. When they start going from black to red, they are. These are as it were semi-flushed pink, and utterly delicious.)
desperance: (Default)
My first London editor of blessed memory (oh Nick Sayers, where are you now...?) was a big fan of Keith Waterhouse*. Who was mostly writing newspaper columns at the time, and not much within my ken, except that he produced a book called The Theory and Practice of Lunch, whose title tickled me enormously. Especially as I was developing my own fondness for publishers' lunches (also of blessed memory, and where-are-you-now-ishness; these days budgets are skimpy, editors are overworked and oversober; it's a nightmare out there, I tell you).

But lunch! Lunch is a fine thing, in much the same way that a walk is a fine thing: viz, infinite in variation, from the brief and solo stroll around the corner to the hike in company that takes all afternoon. I have had lunches that took all afternoon. Left solo, I'm more inclined to the swift stroll, a sandwich at the keyboard or an omelette over the news; but these days, I am seldom left solo. Marriage changes things, I find. Lunch is becoming a challenge, in the best possible way: something that needs thinking over.

Today's needed a lot of thinking, and may have been a little late, but it was worth it. I made little miniature souffles in a muffin tray, flavoured with cheese and mustard and Worcestershire sauce. They should have been a proper Welsh rarebit souffle on top of toast, but I wasn't wholly sure that Karen would like that, and besides: cuties in a muffin tray! They rose beautifully, too. I shoulda taken photies, just to show you.

Broccoli-and-bacon salad on the side. I was very pleased.

*If the name means nothing, never mind. British journalist and playwright, floreat '60s and onward: very much of that generation & mindset.


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November 2017

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