Wednesday, 13 July 2016

Pot Luck.

Pie (fish).

Fever. Burning up. So heavy limbed that the weight of my own body pins me to the bed. That’s me on Saturday morning. Every, single, thing, hurts, everywhere.

“What shall I get from the farmer’s market?” says Husband, coming into the bedroom in his cycling gear.

“I’m sick,” I say.

"Oh dear," he says, eating my toast. "You haven’t eaten your toast."

“No,” I say, “I’m sick. Thank you for bringing it. I’m not hungry.”

“Okay,” he says, dropping the papers on my toes, where they sit, heavy, on my toes.

“And I can’t read,” I say, “and I can’t get up.”

This is a problem because these are the things I usually do on Saturday mornings, after breakfast in bed.

“Cod?” he says. “Plus a nice piece of beef for your parents coming tomorrow? Eggs and sausage? Duck eggs?”

I'm going to be sick, I think. Duck eggs, schmuck eggs. Always with the food. Breakfast time, Husband likes to talk about lunch. Lunch time, he likes to know about dinner. Dinner time, he likes to chat about what we’re eating tomorrow. Food glorious food. Buying it, putting it away, preparing it, eating it.

Don’t get me wrong, I like food as much as the next woman, and I like cooking up something good, which is fortunate, because we're not a beans on toast kind of family. But sometimes thinking of something for everybody to eat all the time brings me down, especially when I'm struck down with something.

In the last week - I’m counting Monday to Saturday - I have cooked a bolognese, which then turned into a lasagne, with chips, a fish pie, chicken with lentils, salmon with noodles, risotto, and a fry-up. I think that’s it, but honestly, it could have been more. I can’t remember, because I’m sick.

Thighs (chicken).

"Ok, cod and beef and some eggs," I say. "You can hold the sausage, it's bad for us."

I go to sleep again. Sometime later I am woken by the sound of music, guitar music. Husband comes into the bedroom.

“He didn’t go fencing then,” I say.

“He went,” says Husband, “and then he came back.”

“Wow,” I say. I look at the clock: it’s nearly three.

"Shall I start lunch?" says Husband.

Lunch, schmunch, I think. I’m not hungry. I still feel terrible. I will never be well again. I’ll never leave this bed. I’m doomed to lie here forever. Poor me.

"You could warm the grill,” I say, getting up. 

I stumble into the kitchen. "Fried eggs?”

“I’d love a fried egg,” says Husband. “The boys like scrambled. Both?”

Scrambled, schmambled, I think.

I cook fried eggs, and scrambled eggs, and bacon, and mushrooms, with tomatoes, yellow, and red.

"Why do I have to eat meals?" says Youngest, coming into the kitchen.

“Just, because,” I say.

“I don’t like them,” he says.

“What do you like?” I say.

“Sandwiches,” he says.

After lunch I go back to bed. Much later Husband comes into the bedroom. “Shall I start dinner?” he says.

Dinner schmimmer, I think.

I slip back downstairs and cook a fish curry, but not from scratch, I use a packet, which I keep in the pantry, precisely for days like this.

“Why all this food all the time?” says Youngest, at dinner.

"Because," I say, "that’s the way it is."

Sunday, and I’m feeling myself again: completely better. Phew. My parents visit. My father and I spend the whole time in the garden. 

"Did you read about Monty Don?" says my father, as we're re-potting the fig tree, "loathes begonias."

"Mmm," I say. "I'm with Monty."

"Red ones are nice," says my father, "in a pot."

Husband cooks beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and carrots. I come in from the garden and cook greens and gravy.

"Not more food!” says Youngest. “I don’t want all this food all the time.”

My parents leave for their train at six. At eight Husband comes into the sitting room, where I am reading. “Supper?” he says.

“You must be kidding,” I say. “No one wants supper, surely.”

“Well…” says Husband.

I go into the kitchen. I put out leftovers: bread, cold beef, cheese, cucumber, tomatoes, salad…

“Come and get it!” I shout, loudly.

“Get what?” shouts Youngest, louder.

“What do you think?" I shout back.

“I don’t want food!” shouts Youngest. “I keep telling you.” He comes into the kitchen. “What is it then?” he says.

"Bits and pieces," I say. “If that isn’t what you want then I don’t know what is."

“This is just what I want,” he says. “I'm going to make a sandwich!”

Sandwiches, schmandwiches, I think.

Love E x


P.S. Now he wants a sandwich every day, just, for, him. Fine, because I could really do with a little less cooking. (And now Youngest has the fever.)

Stir-fried left-overs.

No comments:

Post a Comment