It’s little brother’s wedding anniversary and he, his wife (H), Grandma and I have an evening meal together. Grandma has made salatka, a Polish salad dish affectionately known as ‘salad trifle’ in our house. It’s made with chopped egg, but Grandma assures me she has not used egg today as she knows little brother doesn’t like it.
We sit down to eat at the candlelit table around 7.30pm. We want to leave sufficient time to have finished in time for the fight on television later on. (Amir Khan followed by Joe Calzaghe).
We dig into our starter. “Are you sure there’s no egg in this?” asks LB. Grandma looks sheepish. “I didn’t think you would notice, there are so many other things in there”. LB lays down his fork in disgust. “I hate egg and I can taste it”. An uncomfortable silence follows.
“SO” I say, “it’s fight night. Later”. LB grins “Thanks for clarifying.” He feels as though it’s one-all when the main course is served. It’s pheasant but we’ve told Grandma it’s chicken as she would think pheasant too exotic. “This chicken is lovely” she says and we all grin into our plates.
“Oops” cries H half way through eating as she drops sauce down her front “dinner medals”.
We retire to the lounge for the boxing and even H, uncertain at first, is shouting at Calzaghe to hit his opponent before long. We're all glued to the set apart from Grandma, who sits with her crossword. She has an amazingly broad vocabulary but her spelling is not always correct (euphoria has been spelled with an 'f'). Not to be deterred, she rewrites clues again and again so that the paper is just a mess of black Biro to the uninitiated eye. Where a word doesn't fit, she declares the paper to have made a mistake and enters her answer regardless. I'm beginning to see who I have inherited my determined genes from.
Katy
(A life less Ordinary?)
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