Dog House

I have gone off the dogs.

As you know, they distinguished themselves yesterday by falling in the concrete and needing to be scrubbed clean in the bath.

I did not do the scrubbing, but suspect that some disapproving scolding might have happened at the same time.

Either way, when we went out to work shortly afterwards, Roger Poopy was in such a state of upsetness with himself that he ate one of my favourite flip-flops whilst we were gone.

I had not even left it lying about. He must have had to dig about at the back of the cupboard and ferret it out of the shoe box.

He has not done this for ages. He used to go through flip-flops the way Oliver goes through Pringles, but a behaviour modification strategy largely involving violence seemed to have cured him. This worked so well that in the end I stopped worrying about my flip-flops and bought some nice ones, instead of the paper-thin ones costing about fifty pence each in Asda.

These particular eaten flip-flops had been my very favourites. They had had nice thick non-slip soles, with brightly-coloured pictures of parrots on them. I liked these. They made me feel exotically tropical, even in February in the Lake District. Also I could wear them to go to the Co-op on wet days, and thus not need to steam my boots dry over the fire afterwards.

Worse, they had cost me a whole tenner in TK Maxx,  not without some doubtful agonising. I have worn them every day since, and so probably I have had my money’s worth, but were it not for the tiresome dog I would still be getting my money’s worth, and I was very cross indeed.

I beat him up with the gnawed remains of the flip-flop, and he sloped off to hide underneath the coffee table. I shouted after him that he was a clearance poopy and nobody loved him and probably never would again.

I had not forgiven him by bed time but managed to grit my teeth and be civilised, as you do when you are a balanced adult.

Imagine my happiness, therefore, at the discovery of a large splodge of flip-flop filled dog sick on the carpet this afternoon.

We will draw a veil over the current state of our relationship. I hope that it improves over time.

We were not there when the dog sick was done. We had gone to Booths for some ethical mushrooms.

My parents are coming to visit us next week. I am feeling quietly excited about this. They are staying for two nights in an hotel in Bowness. On the first night we are going to have dinner in the hotel with them. On the second night they are going to come to our house and have dinner with us.

This second has been the subject of much pondering, because I like cooking. Having visitors is an opportunity to cook proper things, instead of just stuff that can be shoved in a plastic tub and eaten in a taxi without making my fingers too sticky.

I am struggling to overcome the impulse to cook lots and lots of things that I have been wanting to cook for ages, and have not cooked, because they will not go in a picnic.

Chief on the list is some raspberry ripple crumble ice cream, which is obviously a very rubbish idea for a picnic in a warm taxi.

I saw a recipe for this in a magazine in the doctor’s waiting room long, long ago, and it has floated about on the edge of my cooking ponderings ever since. I can’t now remember what the recipe said, but it is the idea that has stuck. You make some raspberry ice cream, which is simple enough, and my recipe is probably better than theirs anyway, and then you partly freeze it and stir in some raspberry purée for the ripply bit. That is also easy enough, as long as you don’t get distracted and forget. After that you make a crumble and put it on the top.

I am undecided whether I would like this to be hot or cold. I like the idea of making a crumble with oats and hazelnuts and then adding it at the last minute, hot.

I have thought long and hard about this but not reached a decision, and am further contemplating whether or not I could manage to serve the whole thing in a bowl made out of meringue. This is an economy measure really, because you have to do something with the egg whites when you have made ice cream with the yolks, and I never like throwing them away.

I wanted to make an apple pie and a cheesecake as well, because I like those, but reason has prevailed. I know perfectly well that nobody wants three puddings after their dinner, not even Mark. I am tempted anyway, because I have got some excellent stewed apple that would make a superb pie laced with brandy and maple syrup and cinnamon, and cheesecake is my forever favourite.

The trip to Booths was not for any of these, because none of them requires ethical mushrooms as an ingredient.  I have told you about them because they are On My Mind and I am ruminating even as I write. The ethical mushrooms were because I wanted to make mushroom pate and bread rolls as a starter, and Sainsbury’s only sells dull mushrooms in unwoke plastic tubs.

I thought that I would do this today, because there are going to be lots of other things to do before The Dinner and I don’t want to run out of time.

Mark helpfully drove me up to Booths, because I was concentrating hard, which makes me not good at driving, and we bought some wild mushrooms and some shiitake mushrooms. I have no idea how you pronounce these and did not wish to try, but fortunately Booths is self-service, so there was nobody to ridicule my ignorance, hurrah for  the modern world.

I fried them in butter and lemon oil with onions and garlic, and added sherry and lots of herbs. I added more sherry than I think you are supposed to, but I like the sort of cooking where you just add lots of your favourite things and don’t bother too much about the other ingredients.

I made them into a pate with some fresh parsley and cream cheese. This turned out to be so nice that we ate half of it with toasted cheese for our picnic. Fortunately there is still some left, and it now has a Destiny to be a starter, with hot bread rolls and tomato mayonnaise and probably some salad to make it look good for you.

It is such a nuisance that you can’t eat very much before you are too full to carry on, because there are so many lovely things that we could have for dinner, and we just can’t have all of them.

I will have a jolly good go. I think this might be a good time to wear a dress, the sort without a waistline. It is not very middle-class to have to unfasten your trousers halfway through dinner.

It is all very exciting and creative. I am looking forward to it all very much indeed.

Have a picture of a guilty dog.