Run pig, run...

I'm sure that you will all be relieved to read that the husband's sausage remained intact yesterday after the impromptu Remembrance service yesterday.  The drive home was a frantic one, with the husband muttering many words which might have earned him at least three Hail Marys if they'd fallen on the wrong set of ears.  

As a final birthday hurrah, we had planned a late lunch at the local hostelry with my sister Miss R and her fiancé Mr L.  The mother and her chap had managed to coerce an invite from Miss R on Saturday to join us (this was done with a threat of leaving us all her sensible shoes and support tights when she goes) so it was six of us who sat down to Sunday lunch.

It was a carvery.

Let me repeat that a little louder.

IT WAS A CARVERY!

Now these were a very popular event when Miss R and I were teenagers, queuing with our grandparents in the hope that there might still be a Yorkshire Pudding left, or that the roast potato tin had just been replenished.  I have a precious memory of standing behind my Nanny Dolly, who was piling her plate with just vegetables (she was on yet another diet).  The man in front of her asked her if she was a vegan.  'Do you mind!' she said in her most insulted voice.  'I have two sons, I'll have you know'.

But there was none of that nonsense yesterday I'm pleased to report.  The six of us queued up very politely.  This lasted until we got our meat choice carved by the chef, after which is was a complete free for all, especially with the pigs in blankets and stuffing balls towards the end of the table.  I got back to the table first with a sensible amount of food on my plate.  The husband, who is highly skilled in the piling of food, had to bend his knees as he came back through the restaurant door so that the top of the food would not brush the door architrave, and the Yorkshire pudding gave a dangerous wobble as he set his plate down.

A silence fell across the table except for the various comments of 'bloody lovely', 'delicious', 'great sprouts' (and it's not even Christmas Day) and 'gorgeous gravy'.  This eventually turned to, 'My eyes are bigger than my belly', 'I'm stuffed', 'I can't eat another thing' and 'what's for pudding?' (the mother, who has the figure of a prima ballerina and the stomach capacity of  Billy Bunter).

As we surveyed our empty/half empty/licked clean plates, I said to Miss R, 'Did you not like the roasties then? You've left them all'.  I gestured at the three potatoes discarded in a pool of gravy.

'That's the thing about carveries',  she said.  'When I cook a roast at home, at no time do I put seven roast potatoes on my plate.  It's a kind of madness that descends on you when you can take as much as you like'.

The husband (his was the licked clean plate) nodded, 'But just bear in mind what a great base seven roast potatoes make.  You can get a whole load of food on top of them without it falling off on the way back to the table.  You don't get that reassurance with a pig in blanket - your peas would be bloody everywhere'.

Miss R blushed.  

'Pigs in blankets?' she said.  'I've got four in my pocket for later'.

The family pilferer strikes again...