scallops, an enduring love

I first stumbled across scallops in Australia. In that large country, if you want to go camping, it is quite acceptable to opt for an organised trip where you are driven about in a bus, tents are provided and a cook dishes up wonderful meals.

One night our cook produced scallops in a white wine sauce. Many of the campers weren't very taken with her offering which meant that my travel companion and I each had five helpings. We deserved to be ill afterwards for such piggery, but weren't.

Years later, I spent several days toute seule in a little town on the French Riviera researching for a book. On my first night in Villefranche, I went to a restaurant where Coupe St Jacques was on the menu. I ordered this, not quite sure what to expect. What was served up was scallops on a bed of rice, garnished with fresh figs. It was wonderful, so wonderful, in fact, that I returned the following evening - in a different frock, just to show that I wasn't totally averse to variety - and requested the same meal.

Tempted as I was to return on my third and final evening, I was reluctant to appear like a sad, unadventurous creature who, having found a good restaurant, played it safe by patronising it every night. That was around three and half years ago. Since then, scallops have entered my consciousness from time to time, a vague thought about buying and cooking them myself rather than waiting for someone else to do so.

This evening my partner returned home with four of these delicious shellfish for me to try.


So I guddled about in the kitchen, cooking meatballs, spaghetti and tomato sauce for the boys, scallops in a white sauce ( we didn't have any white wine) with rice for me. The result wasn't too bad for a first effort. Though my culinary efforts were interrupted by one of our newly neutered kittens managing to remove the protective plastic cone-like collar around her neck.





Someone has been advising me to get to bed earlier and get up earlier as a way of achieving more with my day and of feeling less tired in the morning. I've been resisting, but today I had to get up ( and stay up) early. Our kittens were due at the vet's at 9 am for their surgery. After dropping them off, I visited my aunt, did some shopping in town, then had an osteopathic treatment for my back.










I was home by three, where I did dishes, tidied up, went through iPhotos ruthlessly deleting poor photos to free up space in my computer, did 800 cals worth on my exercise bike, found a new home for a leopard lilly plant which the vet told me was toxic for kittens ( gulp!), cooked dinner (as mentioned earlier) and am ending the day ( I think) with this blog. Mind you, I am tired now and it's not yet midnight.

















It seems that it's not just a case of sums where time is concerned. You might think that if you stay up to 3 am and get up (finally) at 11 am you'll achieve the same as you do if you go to bed at midnight and get up at 8 am. Perhaps this isn't true.


Reflectively yours

Jane