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8th July: Butternut Squash and Sage Risotto

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I’m sorry for the delay. It’s been a long week. And no, I’m not still hungover!

Once again the Weather Gods and The Pool of The Endless Mystery Virus have conspired to test my resolve to its limit. We spend the week trapped indoors, peeking bleakly through the drizzle-soaked windows. The kids, with rheumy eyes and candlewick noses, fight over one train. The Baby pulls at her mouth and drools incessantly. The soundtrack is whinge. Interspersed with train-based rage and my sobs.

A fortnight ago I was sipping Peronis under the Tuscan sun. A week or so ago, I was on the razzle with a brilliant gang of friends. Today I am on the set of some Dickens mini-drama.

I feel like blacking out my teeth and smearing garlic on the kids. Maybe waggling a clove-studded orange in their faces and downing a flaggon of porter.

There is a brief glimmer of let up. Saturday is, miraculously for mid-July, not actually wanging it down. We head off to a Food Festival at a nearby country house. It’s totally Cheshire Dahling. People are pelting cash at anyone who’ll have it. The stall holders look frankly bewildered that people are willing to queue four deep to pay Β£4 for a bag of popcorn. I possibly do not need to tell you that we were not in that queue…

I do, however, wait patiently to get some amazing Jerk chicken, complete with salad, rice and peas. Amazeballs. I am going to try and recreate it at some point, will keep you posted.

We meet up with undoubtedly our most obnoxious (although endlessly entertaining) friend. We finally get to meet his lovely girlfriend. I lose my bet that she’ll be wearing a hearing aid. It seems that she genuinely must enjoy his ceaseless banter πŸ˜‰

Best of all, I even get an hour to myself whilst He takes all three to the park. I buy an array of goodies: bacon, cheese, kippers, morecambe bay shrimps. Yum.

The following day He tells me he’s too ill to get out of bed. I am furious, which I do know is mean. It’s our nephew’s ‘Welcome’ Party back home. By the time He decides he simply can’t manage it, it’s too late & too stressful for me to get the kids there. I spend the day trying to entertain the disappointed trio and hollering up the stairs to check “You still alive?”. He texts me to come and mop his brow. He asks me to nip to the shop (with the kids) to fetch him some Lucozade. Both are met with expletives. Flo Nightingale has nothing on me…

In an attempt to boost immune systems, I make a nice wholesome risotto for tea. I chop up a squash and coat with dried sage and olive oil before roasting in a hot oven for 25mins. Meanwhile I fry some onion & garlic in butter before adding in the arborio rice. Add white wine and chicken stock until cooked. Mix in the roasted squash, some Parmesan & seasoning. I serve with some of my crispy overpriced bacon. Scrummy.

Please God let it do the trick, I am clearly not cut out for nursing, nor am I cut out to play the bawdy wench in some Victorian slum scene. Half of that statement is true.

Either way, things simply must improve before I finally have done with it and daub a cross on my door. Bring out your dead. 9/10.







4 responses »

  1. Pat Murrell

    how you make me chuckle with a real sense of deja vu, Why are the HEs always poorly when you can least afford them to be so??

  2. Thanks for the risotto recipe!! Had much fun reading about your day.


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