The continuing Indian Summer that we’re having here on the sunny Isle has made us want to be out and about in the evenings either having a cool glass of pink watching the boats on the Medina or sitting right at the end of the garden which gets the very last of the day’s sunshine. On Wednesday nights we have the Curry Club and we either walk to Cowes or bus it elsewhere and this has been a long standing tradition of many years. The club is a touch on the cliquey side but every now and again we welcome new members and add to the moveable feast.
Having had our Wednesday night out this week where much drink was taken, two new victims were initiated and one old member was welcomed back after a long absence, the weather was so lovely the next evening that we decided to all get together again. The menfolk decided that they would cook and so we all assembled down the road with a couple of chickens, some vegetables for roasting, dessert and some very smelly cheese as well as copious bottles of wine. And so the mayhem began.
I observed with much mirth Mr Folly and TG who were doing the lion’s share of the work and realised that actually there is nothing funnier than watching men who don’t normally cook, cook. Mr Folly, being a publican and purveyor of fine food was very amusing as he donned latex gloves and got his best knives out and dusted them off. He then proceeded to prepare enough vegetables to feed several small armies and told me off for interfering when I pointed this out (needless to say there were vast quantities of leftovers). TG cooks as though he’s on the telly and insists on putting each ingredient into a little bowl. Pedantic doesn’t cover it and Delia had better watch out! The washing up stretched from here to eternity (why is it that men use every pot, pan and implement in the kitchen?)and Mrs Folly and I spent a good amount of time restoring the kitchen to some semblance of order.
The net result of all this was a veritable feast. We had an enormous roast, a very chocolatey cake and I had my favourite Manchego. There was much laughter, stories recounted, gossip had, a vat of wine drunk and we staggered home much the worse for wear. A perfect evening.