Cold Turkey

Today

While spooning out the saute potatoes onto Paul's dinner plate last night I accidentally nudged my own and watched in horror as the plate slid off the worktop, somersaulted and landed, dinner-side down on the floor. Now, I do keep my kitchen floor clean, but not so that one would actually eat one's dinner off it, and anyway, cheese omelette responds badly to being dashed to the ground. Also there were chips of crockery everywhere.

I felt a bit irritable about this, understandably. Paul shared his dinner with me and later we made up for it with a glass or two of Pimms taken beside the chimenea in the twilit garden.

I complained on Facebook and Beatrice said "Do you remember the strange incident of the turkey on the floor?" Indeed I do.

In My Day

When we lived at Montfort Close we had room enough in an extension to seat a fair number of dinner guests. Once Christmas (1984, I think) we invited the following number of guests to share it: The Levetts (who only had two young 'uns in those days), Beverley's Parents, Mum, Claire and Beatrice and her then spouse Nick. Fourteen in all.

I boldly offered guests their starter of choice (I think Beatrice demanded, and got, caviar) and Beverley and I set to and made a traditional Xmas lunch. Beverley had lent her pressure cooker so that the veg could be cooked speedily.

After the starters and with wine having started to flow freely in the next room, we went off to serve up the main course. I had recently acquired a very expensive, top-of-the-range gas cooker which guaranteed that the oven shelves would support 25lbs on their anti-tilt cantilever system. The turkey weighed about 23lbs, but perhaps I should have taken into account the weight of the tin. Whatever; as I pulled out the oven shelf, it did indeed tilt. The tin went one way the turkey the other. I reached up and caught the turkey in my arms (I always was good at throwing and catching).

This act covered me in very hot fat and the turkey slid to the floor as I yelped and rapidly discarded my clothing. Paul rescued the turkey and gave it a quick rinse under the tap. I dashed upstairs to change. The ignored pressure cooker hissed away. I hastily invented some gravy, Beverley removed the now hopelessly overcooked veg, while guests in the next room loudly sang "Why are we waiting".

Eventually we made our triumphant procession into the dining room and allowed guests to think that the delay was due to my vanity which had necessitated me changing my clothes. We didn't mention the heap of clothes on the floor of the kitchen, congealing under turkey fat or the slight blistering burn on one of my boobs. And the rest of the meal went very well.

However, I was sorry that one of my very nice grey faux crocodile high heels never recovered from its soaking and had to be chucked.