The boy being absent,
camping out at a friend’s, my wife and I indulged in an adult evening meal of
fillet steak, mushrooms, peas and new potatoes, washed down with an excellent
Cornish rosé wine (a present from my sister who after living there for 40 years
almost qualifies as a local); this meal always goes down well for two reasons,
first what’s not to like, and second it has nostalgia value as it reprises one
that I produced early in our courtship when I arrived on her doorstep one night
with a carrier bag of ingredients that I proceeded to cook, more or less successfully,
on her unfamiliar gas cooker.
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