I hope my parents are having a lovely morning, possibly breakfasting on eggs snuggled in these little beauties from Milly & Pip. For their presents yesterday were one apiece, personalized with their initials and absolutely gorgeous. Aren’t they pretty?
Obviously, that isn’t a picture of their actual cosies. My mum’s name isn’t Tilly. You’ll have to take my word for it that they loved them. Oh, and before I forget to tell you: the gin and tonic proved to be the perfect present. Even the gift wrapped lime went down well (have you ever tried to wrap a lime? Not the easiest of fruits to cosset with paper and sellotape).
Yesterday was gorgeous. A walk in the sun, picnic lunch outside, a snooze on the sofa in the afternoon. Even the post-walk birthday cake did not sink, due more to the infallibility of the lemon drizzle recipe than the attention of the baker, who was distractedly trying to iron and lay the table at the same time rather than paying attention to the oven timer.
Dinner was – if I say so myself, immodestly – bloody lovely.
My mangled version of chicken tartiflette was a triumph of potatoes, chicken and cream. The conversational silence as plates were scraped and juices slurped said it all, really. I feel I should rename it Yorkiflette Chicken. And the raspberry and apple crumble with custard disappeared at a rate of knots. I think you could say it was a success. Even The Boo tried to get in on the act, leaping up at a moment of distraction and sticking her nose in the custard. You’ll be pleased to hear that it was my bowl, not anyone else’s, that she attempted to raid. And when forcibly removed, she thoughtfully provided background music until ushered from the room in disgrace.
The cheeseboard was practically cleared: all the Binham Blue went, the Wells Alpine was tasted to high acclaim, and the Wensleydale was perfectly crumbly. It was the perfect amalgamation of Norfolk and Yorkshire on a plate.
The fridge is a lot emptier than it was at the start of the weekend, which is a relief as it was starting to get embarrassing to field a bottle of wine or a bag of salad every time you opened the door to get milk for a cuppa. The one saving grace is that I have a small portion of leftovers for lunch. It’s all that’s saving me from wailing that life isn’t fair, heading back to bed and pulling the duvet over my head in disgust.
I suspect I’m on a culinary come down.