Ice, ice baby...
Words from a Bird. Day 81
Sundays in my house usually end up going the same way every week. Whoever has had the good fortune to be sleeping here on Saturday night wakes up thinking that Sunday is going to be a day of rest, a reward for all the hard work put in through the week.
Everyone gets their wish, long lie ins (except me as I have to sort Reg out), lazy breakfasts (I cook this, and end up with half of a cold sausage sandwich if I am lucky), an afternoon of motorsports (damn you BT Sport, you ruined my life), a roast dinner (once again, me cooking). Then there's vegging on the sofa (ironing), catching up with friends (washing) and reading the papers (housework). So you can imagine that by the time I actually sit down on a Sunday, there's not much of it left. Probably just enough for a drool fest targeted at The Night Manager - that's enough excitement for me.
But my favourite time on a Sunday is the weekly roast dinner which is on offer between the months of October and April. The husband resumes BBQ duties outside of this period...I am already salivating at the thought of an incinerated sausage, and am considering going veggie for the summer months. I can't imagine that his cooking would have the same effect on lettuce and a Quorn burger.
So sitting round the table today were the usual suspects, me, the husband, son number 2 and his BFF who joins us every week. As dinner finished, the two younger table guests were discussing whether they would be back in time from a Percy walk, as they wanted to watch something at 8.00pm.
'What's that then?' asks the husband. 'Another box set?'
'Penn and Teller', they both chorus, the excitement mounting on their cherubic faces.
'Isn't that an ice cream?' asks the husband looking bewildered (it never takes much to achieve this)
The three of us look confused, and try to work out what he thought we were talking about. It wasn't Ben and Jerry's, Cornetto or Vienetta. It wasn't even Frankie and Benny's (they have no ice cream connection whatsoever, but we were desperate by then), and then the penny dropped.
'It's Panna Cotta', I say, 'and that's definitely not an ice cream'.
'Oh right', says the husband. 'Have we got any in the freezer?'
I still don't know whether he was wanting ice cream or an Italian pudding.
We had neither, so I don't suppose it mattered...
Sundays in my house usually end up going the same way every week. Whoever has had the good fortune to be sleeping here on Saturday night wakes up thinking that Sunday is going to be a day of rest, a reward for all the hard work put in through the week.
Everyone gets their wish, long lie ins (except me as I have to sort Reg out), lazy breakfasts (I cook this, and end up with half of a cold sausage sandwich if I am lucky), an afternoon of motorsports (damn you BT Sport, you ruined my life), a roast dinner (once again, me cooking). Then there's vegging on the sofa (ironing), catching up with friends (washing) and reading the papers (housework). So you can imagine that by the time I actually sit down on a Sunday, there's not much of it left. Probably just enough for a drool fest targeted at The Night Manager - that's enough excitement for me.
But my favourite time on a Sunday is the weekly roast dinner which is on offer between the months of October and April. The husband resumes BBQ duties outside of this period...I am already salivating at the thought of an incinerated sausage, and am considering going veggie for the summer months. I can't imagine that his cooking would have the same effect on lettuce and a Quorn burger.
So sitting round the table today were the usual suspects, me, the husband, son number 2 and his BFF who joins us every week. As dinner finished, the two younger table guests were discussing whether they would be back in time from a Percy walk, as they wanted to watch something at 8.00pm.
'What's that then?' asks the husband. 'Another box set?'
'Penn and Teller', they both chorus, the excitement mounting on their cherubic faces.
'Isn't that an ice cream?' asks the husband looking bewildered (it never takes much to achieve this)
The three of us look confused, and try to work out what he thought we were talking about. It wasn't Ben and Jerry's, Cornetto or Vienetta. It wasn't even Frankie and Benny's (they have no ice cream connection whatsoever, but we were desperate by then), and then the penny dropped.
'It's Panna Cotta', I say, 'and that's definitely not an ice cream'.
'Oh right', says the husband. 'Have we got any in the freezer?'
I still don't know whether he was wanting ice cream or an Italian pudding.
We had neither, so I don't suppose it mattered...
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