Breakfast: the two slices of toast with the thinnest spreadings of the butter and the grape jelly. This was the first thing I had eaten for 36 hours. Yum.
Lunch: the fishcake and the sweetcorn. Oh and the some chips.
Supper: the rescued bowl of soup followed by the scrambled eggs on the toast.
A couple of Penguins may also have passed my lips on occasion.
The Rescued Bowl of Soup
Well. It was all going so smoothly. A gnomic butternut squash and a slightly fatigued sweet potato, each yielding a disproportionately large pile of peelings. The inevitable goose fat. Some two-day-old roast potatoes that were lurking in a bowl in the fridge, added to the roasting tin at the last minute to revitalise them. Another spoonful of goose fat (I think it's breeding in there) for onion and garlic, heated slowly until temptingly glossy. Plenty of thyme, ripped roughly from the sprigs. A bag of the goose stock that I froze yesterday, and then the roasted vegetables into the stockpot.
Blender.
A winter soup, delicious and warming, enough to stave off the snow that they say will arrive tonight.
Whizz. Whhiiiiizzzzzzzz. Phhhhzzrrrrrrrrrr.
And then, as I lift the blender jug off its spindle, the bottom of the jug gets all stubborn. Displaying admirable loyalty, it remains attached to the main body of the food processor, which has treated it so well over the years. The top of the jug displays a more adventurous spirit, striking out on its own. The soup within the jug can’t make up its mind.
A token amount lands in one of the bowls, and some on the worktop. But mostly on my clothes and the floor. I am tempted to squeeze out the cloth into a bowl, just to salvage some of the precious golden gloop. But then I realise that the cloth in question is the one that hasn't been washed for, ooh, let's pretend it's only a week.
Scrambled eggs then. And that, as anyone who has ever ruined them (and let's face it, we all have) is another story.
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