It’s Saturday night.
The fire is going, the telly is off, and Tiny is fast asleep.
Tall is out for dinner and drinks with friends visiting from Wellington. In true Bloke Fashion, this evening’s gathering was arranged at the Last Possible Moment, which left us no time to find babysitters (ie: call mum and dad to see if they were free). Seeing that they are more Tall’s friends than mine, I’m the lucky one who gets to stay home on baby-watch. “I won’t be having a Big Night”, Tall said as he rushed out to the taxi. “Don’t get caught in the snow and have to spend the night at a bar”, I replied.
I am eating tomato soup – from a can – with fresh San Fran sourdough from the Farmer’s Market, washed down with a glass of Gunn Estate Merlot Cabernet.
Yes, I’m aware that this is a strange combination. I text (texted? Whatever.) a friend to ask if it was wrong to have wine and soup for dinner, and she said, “No. It’s smart”. And that’s good enough for me.
Anyhoooo. When Tall was away this week, I also had soup and bread for dinner. Which is rather odd for someone who loves cooking and eating as much as I do.
This has made me realise that I only enjoy cooking for other people. I never cook for just myself. Never. There’s something so rewarding about seeing someone take the first bite of something I’ve made, and (hopefully) seeing them enjoy it. But all that effort just for me? Nah. Doesn’t happen.