On Saturday we went to London for my nephew’s birthday/firework party. We left late and just made it in time for the birthday party where Chuckles, the entertainer, stayed for an hour and then left saying, "I'm getting too old for this." Then the kids had mini muffin cakes, which were iced with a pink glaze and had hundreds and thousands on them and Pringles/dips and sandwiches. One little girl was rooted to the birthday tea table; it reminded me of myself as a kid. I once embarrassed my parents by following a hostess trolley, full of cakes, around a room in the 70's, refusing to let go of the side of it. My small hand had to be prized off.
Then my nephew's birthday cake arrived at the table with a five on it, which was an indoor sparkler. As he blew it out I wished him all the best in his life, with every bone and sinew in my body. My daughter ate the birthday cake and did an excellent job of taking off all the icing. Then there was a small lull before the fireworks party started at 5pm and B’s Chinese friend turned up to serve us fried food.
First, she cooked loads of prawn crackers and then deep fried fish, spring rolls and sesame toast. I tried them all, dipping my crackers in sweet chilli sauce and then went outside to sit on the bench and watch the fireworks and the roaring bonfire at the end of my brother's garden. I was doing all my favourite things. My son appeared, his face covered in chocolate and mud he was doing all his favourite things. B came out and we sat on the bench and watched people, through the French windows, approaching the chocolate fountain we had brought from Bristol. They held their skewers, with marshmallows on, in the flow of chocolate, before eating them and leaving the inevitable drip of chocolate down the chin, which after the third or fourth go no one bothered wiping away. Fab!!
The morning after, I woke with a deep fried fish hangover and after coming round we left to go to Norfolk, to be with my dad before his operation. This was going to be a different space.
We arrived in time for dad's home made tomato soup which my son lapped up. My mum had made an evening meal of Spaghetti Bolognese, interrupted only by the vicar coming round to pray for dad. Prayer, the holder of glistening tears. We are the bread broken.
We finished and eat ice-cream and then had tea and coffee and Waitrose stem ginger.
I went to bed knowing we were all dealing with Dad’s operation in our own ways and felt alone.
The next morning I wasn’t well enough to be with my dad in hospital, my glands were up. My dad and I spoke with space between us. I couldn’t hug him goodbye or go with him because I don't want him to catch my bug. Just before he left, coat on, we talked about dinner later, even though he wouldn’t be there, he came with me to the chest freezer in the garage, and got out,' Beef and Bacon Casserole,' which my dad tells me his is favourite dish, his signature dish. He took 2 of them out for tea. He knows it is my husband's favourite.
The casserole, packed in old ice-cream cartons, sat defrosting on a tray in the dining room, as the car backed out of the drive and took dad to hospital.
Unable to visit dad I returned home and spoke to him on the phone later, after his operation. I tell him,’ the casserole is great’ and he says,’ I should have sent you back with more.’ The funny thing is, although it’s not my favourite, I wish he had.
Dad's recipe:
Then my nephew's birthday cake arrived at the table with a five on it, which was an indoor sparkler. As he blew it out I wished him all the best in his life, with every bone and sinew in my body. My daughter ate the birthday cake and did an excellent job of taking off all the icing. Then there was a small lull before the fireworks party started at 5pm and B’s Chinese friend turned up to serve us fried food.
First, she cooked loads of prawn crackers and then deep fried fish, spring rolls and sesame toast. I tried them all, dipping my crackers in sweet chilli sauce and then went outside to sit on the bench and watch the fireworks and the roaring bonfire at the end of my brother's garden. I was doing all my favourite things. My son appeared, his face covered in chocolate and mud he was doing all his favourite things. B came out and we sat on the bench and watched people, through the French windows, approaching the chocolate fountain we had brought from Bristol. They held their skewers, with marshmallows on, in the flow of chocolate, before eating them and leaving the inevitable drip of chocolate down the chin, which after the third or fourth go no one bothered wiping away. Fab!!
The morning after, I woke with a deep fried fish hangover and after coming round we left to go to Norfolk, to be with my dad before his operation. This was going to be a different space.
We arrived in time for dad's home made tomato soup which my son lapped up. My mum had made an evening meal of Spaghetti Bolognese, interrupted only by the vicar coming round to pray for dad. Prayer, the holder of glistening tears. We are the bread broken.
We finished and eat ice-cream and then had tea and coffee and Waitrose stem ginger.
I went to bed knowing we were all dealing with Dad’s operation in our own ways and felt alone.
The next morning I wasn’t well enough to be with my dad in hospital, my glands were up. My dad and I spoke with space between us. I couldn’t hug him goodbye or go with him because I don't want him to catch my bug. Just before he left, coat on, we talked about dinner later, even though he wouldn’t be there, he came with me to the chest freezer in the garage, and got out,' Beef and Bacon Casserole,' which my dad tells me his is favourite dish, his signature dish. He took 2 of them out for tea. He knows it is my husband's favourite.
The casserole, packed in old ice-cream cartons, sat defrosting on a tray in the dining room, as the car backed out of the drive and took dad to hospital.
Unable to visit dad I returned home and spoke to him on the phone later, after his operation. I tell him,’ the casserole is great’ and he says,’ I should have sent you back with more.’ The funny thing is, although it’s not my favourite, I wish he had.
Dad's recipe:
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