It's been the Queen's birthday weekend. Not a weekend, alas, where we dress up in satin, build guitars out of fireplaces, or even run the international drug trade. No, instead it's rained the whole weekend and we've made do with a scant spattering of indoor fun. Three wet days for which our gasping dams are grateful.
Saturday's highlight was going to Preston Market. Sunday was a drive in the country up through St Andrews and King Lake. This is a part of the world I love; a part of the world I feel at home in, despite my urban predilection.
Sunday was tired and sleepy. Headache for much of the day. It continued to rain. We ate.
Today was relaxed. I was eager to do so much in the garden and did little. Al had Kate here, and with Emmy and Will spent much of a rainy afternoon watching Get Smart. Maybe watching too much telly as a child is bad. I take heart in two things: (1) it didn't seem to harm me much, and if it did I'm too televisually stupid to tell; and (b) to quote Fry and Laurie, "of course 'too much is bad for you'; that's what 'too much' means".
Today's only novel experience was cooking a rib roast slowly (for more than 3 and a half hours at just under a 100 degrees). Bugger all Maillard reacting, except for the pre-roast browning, but amazingly, wonderfully tender... Juicy and soft, the meat was medium rare (as the recipe promised) and pulled apart with a butter knife, but it needed salt, pepper and mustard (and horseradish; if only we'd had it - bugger!).
I'd write some more, but its one of those nights where I'm not sure how much of myself I want to commit to blog. If this was a diary, perhaps I'd write more, but having started down this path I'm committed. I could always keep a diary I suppose, but who would I be writing for then?
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2 comments:
You sound like you're getting the winter blues. I caught it this year also.
I see there is a smattering of snow now up at Kinglake. Queens birthday weekend is a dumb excuse to have the ski season opening. Its not even her birthday and England don't have a day off for her real one. What about the conspiracy of her being a reptile and sucks the blood of children that go missing? David Icke is responsible for that one.
I read about David Icke in Jon Ronson's book - I love the bit where his friends are defending him against charges of antisemitism - "when David says 'giant space lizards', he doesn't means Jews, he means giant space lizards", his friends say, somewhat sadly...
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