Any excuse for a party.
We really don’t get out much. No local babysitters means we have to ‘make our own fun’. A shonky Royal Wedding Party, a Carols Round the Piano party, ‘Sophisticated’ Dinner Parties….you get the gist.
This time it was a rather cheesy Fondue Party.
In our former guise as fun loving travelling types, we spent a lot of time in the French Alps.
By God do they love to melt cheese. A lot. And who’d have thought there would be so many ways to do such a simple thing?? The apparatus is incredible! The tables in any mountain retreat look like medieval torture chambers. Hooks, Maces, Scrapers.
The menus read like that Monty Python sketch:
Ham, Onions, Cheese, Cream.
Cream, Cheese, Onions, Ham.
Cheese, Onions, Ham, Cream.
Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam.
I realise it’s a tricky climate and historically it must have been pretty tough to produce much else. But how on earth do they all not have rickets or some other vitamin-deficiency ailment??
For a piglet like me, however, it’s total dreamsville. Stale bread dunked in winey cheese?? What’s not to like??
Like the total suckers we are (and me being heavily into amassing kitchenalia), we clearly bought a couple of devices before returning to Blighty. They used to get a regular airing in our funky Just Married days. Less so now, as we can’t even muster up the energy to search for the French to English plug adaptor.
He brought me a load of cheese back from his Alpine Schmoozefest so we decided to go searching for that plug and invite some chums over for a cheese feast.
It’s a sociable, if not a little frustrating, way to eat. Not helped by our miniature table. A fondue bubbling away, a raclette machine pumping out the heat, platters of meats, pickles, potatoes and bread teetering on various stools and windowsills.
Our friends are game and get stuck in. A couple of them have even come dressed in Crimplene – above and beyond. It’s not breathable and there are two heaters on the table! They could spontaneously combust at any given moment! I toy with putting some Demis Roussos on the stereo and donning a kaftan. I don’t. Much hilarity ensues. We drip molten cheese everywhere and stuff our faces Alpine stylee.
I must admit that it doesn’t require any culinary effort on my part, save boiling some spuds and opening some packets of cured ham. To atone, I make a Pavlova for pud. My Nana’s Pavlova needs its own entry on here so I’ll save that for another time.
We drink a fair bit and tell tales of pre-kiddie travels. Mopeds, inappropriate gropings – one of our friends has us howling at his Vietnamese misfortune. Best leave that one there….
Cheesy Fun Times 10/10.