Sunday December 7, 2007
“This stove looks like you’ve been murdering gerbils on it,” Graham said when he came into the kitchen to see what the delicious smell was all about.
“No. Not gerbils. Errant olives.”
“I suppose that makes it alright, then.”
“Better had. This is my famous exploding putanesca sauce and you don’t want to let them putas hear you criticising or they’ll nesca all over you.”
I have to admit, the stove was in a terrible state by the time I’d finished cooking the sauce and poured it over the waiting spaghetti. I don’t know what it is, I seem always to make a dreadful mess when cooking Italian sauces. Simply can’t make them behave. They explode, you see, like an Icelandic mud field on a volcanic day.
The meal was a great success, though, as was witnessed by Graham’s empty plate, wiped clean with the last piece of ciabatta.
“I know you’re the world expert in putanesca sauce but was that alright?” I asked.
“You betcha. What’s for dessert?”
“A very small helping of bread-and-butter pudding.”
“Great. Then I’ll tackle the cooker top for you.”
And, good as gold, he set to with the CIF and a sponge, and restored the hob to its former white shininess.
“I know what it was,” he said, munching at a Cox’s Orange Pippin. “You were thinking of Buffy the Vampire Slayer while you were cooking.”
“Grrr! Argh!”
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