I’ve been busy since getting home from work. I’ve let the chickens out for a run round the garden, and I’ve baked a birthday cake for my future mother-in-law and I’ve ironed my shirt and trousers for tomorrows interview, and began ironing the hankies that lurk at the bottom of the basket but I stopped doing that, just before Emma got home, to start dismembering the remains of the chicken (the Tesco one, not Wiggy and Miss Guinevere) for the curry…
Emma got home and for a while we were both busy in the kitchen as she set about boiling up the carcass for the soup. It was fun, the two of us in the kitchen at the same, chopping and dicing, boiling and baking, enthused with the aroma of cooking and making meals out of old meals just like grannie used to.
That said, pausing our viewing of Grand Designs briefly, Emma did succeed in dropping the seive of straining soup in such a way as it was too splash up all over her and across the top of the birthday cake. Hrmm… chicken-flavoured victoria sandwich…
