Spent a couple of days at Mum’s clearing the house with bro and bro in law. More than fifty years of stuff came out of the garage and loft and easily filled a skip, several visits to the dump and charity shop. It’s poignant but also feels more and more like a very long to do list rather than the home we grew up in.
The three of us are ardent foodies, we all love cooking and the words ‘ready meal’ are not in our vocabulary. Came from my parents who cooked fresh every day, though the odd fish finger and Angel Delight (modern doncha know) would make its appearance.
My bro in law rustles up a mean curry with fifteen different spices, bro is an instinctive cook from lasagne to ‘I’m cooking a different fish every week’ and I have always found cooking a great pleasure and solace.
But none of wanted to cook at Mum’s; it somehow didn’t feel appropriate, not a home anymore. So the first night we had an Indian takeaway, lunch time the next day was a full English at the local cafe, though bro in law went for the slightly more healthy cheese ploughman and fish and chips last night.
We needed the comfort of carbs, having someone else prepare food for us, a brief sortie into the normal world.