Pork

I'm happily sitting at home on a Saturday night, not worrying that our social life has tailed away of late. Why am I content? I suppose it's the realisation that we have the excuse of being variously ill or just under-the-weather for the last couple of weeks, that it's the last week before the solstice, and that I cooked a roast for ten people last night.

I do enjoy cooking; there's a soothing ritual to the preparation and procedures involved. There is art and there is science, there are tools and there are actions all of which have to come together to make things right. Last night was socially comfortable and confirming: all the guests were people whom we both like very much, although we haven't seen enough of anyone of them over the last few weeks. John and Clare have been out of the social flow for months, really, ever since they started going out with each other they have been a couple who have cocentrated upon themselves rather than their wider circles. Young love, eh? Or at least, middle-aged love.

So- let's be critical, shall we?
The pork, a roast roll of whatever-the-butcher-provides, turned out very well, with the crackling both crisp on the surface and juicy underneath. The swede and carrot mash was fine, turning out just sweet and bitter enough to make it tasty and yet interesting. I was very disappointed by my potatoes. I think I chose the wrong variety, as although I cooked them in the usual fashion they were limp on the outside and soggy within. That'll teach me. I was quietly upset about them. The apple sauce was good. I'm pleased with my method of preparing that, as it's just a few chopped apples, a mix of Bramleys and Cox and a windfall from the neighbours' garden, microwaved with a smidge of sugar for sweetness and some lime juice for acidity and to prevent browning through oxidation.

AS this was an American supper the guests provided the other courses. Caroline's butternut squash superb was as pokey yet smooth as she promised, (and the baker's rustique french bread is superbly tasty), Susan's tart was as excellent as Nicky's citrus and cranberry bread pudding. Yum.

Somehow both Moonface and I missed out on the port. Nevertheless, neither of us was sober when we went to bed. Caroline took ill halfway through the evening, which somewhat dampened our enthusiasm for staying up too late. We blamed the joint she smoked - she wasn't sure about the provenance of the dope - but she thought that it was something caught from one of her pupils. Whatever, she was more-or-less fully recovered by Satuday afternoon.

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I don't know why I whinged about my social life. On Thursday lunchtime I has a pie and pint with Neil to wish him a good holiday in the US over the Christmas period; and in the evening Drew and I went out for a drink while Moonface celebrated leaving her last job with her ex-colleagues by having a meal in the Inn on the Green. Drew and I had a bizarre walk down the Gloucester Road, rejecting every pub we passed as either being too full or as lifeless. The band in the Prom was pretty dire and too loud, so we ended up at the Bishop's. It's the first time I've been in there although it has been open for several years. It was quiet, not too busy, with cheap beer and comfy seats. I need to return there soon to check that it could become a regular haunt.


:o)