Wednesday, November 11, 2009

A drinking society with with a writing problem

We had the French cousins (the ones whose sons christened me 'Robinson' after I introduced them to our idea of fun - catching and collecting food, and cooking it over an open fire at the beach.) I did mussels in an annisette scented tomato base, with black squid ink spagetti and green olives, a lemon and orange and lemoncillo sorbet, and then venison with sauce of bacon, ceps and artichoke heart, with jerepigo and cream, with home-made pears in spiced red wine. I cooked for South Africa, and they ate for France. Soon I will have to cook for Australia.

Today was our writers group meeting - or rather a drinking society with a writing problem, which has finished late and maudlin. It was rather nice to have people tell us they appreciated us, but they'll manage fine without us, I reckon. The level of talent - and the variety, is amazing. The dead fat lady story was a candidate for being banned by the Geneva convention as a weapon of mass-construction. It's been a lot of fun to watch it grow.

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