Mr B reckons I am not saucy enough. After fifty years of marriage, you might think it's a bit late to hit me with such bad news.
Worry not, dear reader, it's nothing too
personal: Mr B is talking about my mincemeat which is, quite simply, too bland. He is joined in his honest opinion, kindly meant, by the Youngest of the Darling Daughters, who advises me to add a Saucy Mixture of soy sauce, HP sauce and Worcester sauce. Why
add one sauce, she doesn't exactly say, but I'm sure she means it, when you could add three?
When Our Foursome were littl'un, mincemeat was not so much our Dish of Choice as our Dish of Necessity. With added
lentils and , it went such a very long way when you had a large, hungry family to feed. Clearly my children had a deprived childhood, valiantly eating up their cottage pie while pining for extra sauce.
I didn't have much time to worry about the sauciness of my cooking because it was the Questers' quarterly meeting in the morning and cribbage in the afternoon. Saucy or not, this gal knows how to have fun.
was later than intended at the Questers' meeting on account of having to scrape ice of the Grand Old Lady before I could drive her to our meeting place in the Ferring Village Hall. I think it's because Mr B always attended to such matters when I was a Working
Gal - so that I could waltz out of the house at 8.10 precisely and back the car out of the drive, windscreen, rear window, wing mirrors and all clear of any ice. On my last visit to the Youngest of the Darling Daughters, my Son In Law (aka Uncle Dunk'em Dave
to the younger set) cleared my car of ice without me even realising he had done it till I ventured out, ready to tackle the job for myself. I was quite teary with gratitude.
The hall was packed, as per usual,
but I had time to find a seat, show my membership card, pay in my money for future Questers visits and pay my 30p for coffee and a biscuit (how's that for value!) before the meeting started in earnest.
are wanting to know, I am sure, whether I obeyed Mr B's instructions to sit on my hands every time a call went up for a volunteer. Well, I did - and I didn't. I managed to resist temptation right through to the very end of the meeting when the subject of the
seafront gardens came up and whether we should Adopt a Garden. I don't know exactly what happened but my arm sort of lifted off my lap and into the air, all of its own accord. I also, kind of, said I would investigate the background to the new Costume Trail
around the town which might make a good "Behind the Scenes" visit. It was a good thing the meeting ended when it did or heaven only knows what my Errant Arm would have let me in for...
At cribbage I demonstrated
my Misfit to the assembled company. Bill said, why didn't I just get a dog which would need walking twice a day? He does have a point. Especially as I have hardly walked at all today, being Otherwise Occupied. It's a pity the Misfit doesn't register either
Good Intentions or Winning Ways on the Cribbage Front. Either way I'd be an Achiever instead of an Also Ran. Or, more accurately, an Also Walked.
Back home and in the kitchen, I coopted Mr B into measuring
out the required amounts of sauce into my mincemeat dish. It was a first outing for the Super Saucepan which acquitted itself reasonably well, apart from burning my hand as I struggled to heave it out of the oven.
Mr B said the mincemeat was a little too strong on the Sauce Front. This was nothing to do with his measurements of soy: Worcester: HP, he averred, but all to do with the fact that the size and depth of the Super Saucepan meant that considerably more
gravy was required. Which meant it was, if course, All My Fault. There was only one retort I could reasonably make:
"What a sauce!"