not food again...

January seems to have a theme of cooking, but as the month rapidly draws to a close, I am allowing myself one more food-related post. Today I took my aunt out for lunch to celebrate her birthday. Dependent on somewhere I could wheel her to, the choice of venues was small. One, in fact, so there wasn't really a choice. This venue, a hotel, was somewhere she and I had visited last spring, a visit which gave a new intensity to the word 'disappointing' - see post of June 4, 'The one that got away'. In the interim she'd had a Christmas meal in the same hotel and had ranked the food as sub-standard. Determinedly, I suggested we give it one more try, and it being a lovely day, she agreed.

Today was a much better experience. At the risk of tantalising my taste buds once more, I will relay our food choices. M. began with the cream of mushroom soup which she enjoyed. I opted for the brie tart garnished with red onion marmalade and was pleased with my choice. For the main course I had a chicken risotto, topped with rocket and parmesan. M. had grilled chicken served on a bed of linguini with a cream and basil sauce. She enjoyed that too, although unable to finish it. She sensibly indulged in a glass of white wine, I played safe by sticking to fresh orange mixed with lemonade. The idea of being stopped for breathalysing en route home with a wheelchair containing precious cargo was unthinkable.







There's something special about spending time with someone who's known you all your life, that shared history. She and my uncle lived in India in the 1940s and as my partner and I are currently watching Jewel in the Crown for the third or fourth time, M. and I talked about how things had been in India when she was there. We had many other things to talk about.



When we paid the bill and I complimented the waitress on the meal, I mentioned that this experience had been much more positive than my last one. During the ensuing conversation I learned that the cook today was named Steve, and that the other one, Ian, produces equally appetising food. M. and I now have no qualms about checking on who's in charge in the kitchen of this hotel the next time we decide to go out. If you can choose your GP, your solicitor, why not your chef?










I left M. ensconsed in The Thorn Birds which I lent her a few days ago, with instructions to phone and let me know if she didn't cry during the last episode. When this series was first shown on telly, my colleagues would talk about the boxes of tissues they got through each time. I began to worry there was something wrong with me, having remained dry-eyed up until then. My concern was short-lived. For the last forty minutes I cried non-stop. Unlike me, M. isn't a crier, she informs me. The Thorn Birds, however, might prove the ultimate challenge for her.

A workout on my exercise bike will compensate for the extra calorie intake indulged in today. And pushing a wheelchair, I believe, could be considered a respectable upper body workout.



Contentedly yours

Jane