Anne's been working late and I'm on dinner duty this week and, being Wednesday, that means my repertoire is down to pizza. Which is fine for I am king. A white pizza – gorgonzola, rosemary and sweated red onions - for her degustazione followed by the perfect margherita y acciuga. Social media were tweeting the smells from the moment the slices of homegrown garlic met the olive oil. Grubby-faced urchins spent the twilight hours noses pressed against our windows wishing they lived in Naples. I was, quite literally, cooking with gas.
Remember that cooking for Anne is, as some of you will know all too well, like cooking for Torode and Turnip-head; for Trencherman Fort, Posh Leith and Mincing Wossname. She takes no prisoners, brooks no argument, will countenance no beetroot chutney but hers alone. And she has a way with a compliment. Sashaying niceness, she'll prepare her finest drop volley. Only last week she said to me “You still look lovely, from behind.”
And so it was that tonight she wiped the finest tomato sauce ever to trouble her chin, stretched and sent her finest backhand down the line. “It's so nice to come home and not have to cook for yourself.”
Remember that cooking for Anne is, as some of you will know all too well, like cooking for Torode and Turnip-head; for Trencherman Fort, Posh Leith and Mincing Wossname. She takes no prisoners, brooks no argument, will countenance no beetroot chutney but hers alone. And she has a way with a compliment. Sashaying niceness, she'll prepare her finest drop volley. Only last week she said to me “You still look lovely, from behind.”
And so it was that tonight she wiped the finest tomato sauce ever to trouble her chin, stretched and sent her finest backhand down the line. “It's so nice to come home and not have to cook for yourself.”
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