Funky

We had a House Meeting over coffee in our bed this morning.

The decision that was reached, largely by me, was that we would extend our trip to Manchester this week.

I can’t remember if I told you. 

We are going to Manchester this week.

We are going to go and see Matilda at the wonderful Palace Theatre, by way of a celebratory holiday and farewell event, because my days of riotous freedom to come and go exactly as I choose are about to come to an end. In a very few days time I will be gainfully employed in a real job.

Hence we had saved up and splashed out and spluttered over the price, but nevertheless managed to afford the tickets. My friend Diane, who works in the theatre box office, helpfully saved some for us until we had managed to raise enough cash. Without this unorthodox kindness we would probably have been standing in the cloakroom, because the rest of the tickets sold like tumblers of iced water at an ecstasy rave.

I know about that simile because we did it once. We made a very lot of money.

I am very pleased to be going despite the exorbitant cost. We all like going to the theatre, it makes a one-night holiday feel as exotic and exciting as a fortnight in Marrakesh. 

This morning we decided that we would extend our stay in the car park for a second night, and go to the Royal Exchange to see another play, this one called Death Of A Salesman. This is a gloomy sort of piece, depressing enough to be considered a modern classic, but it has had fawning reviews, and the lead actor has the sort of voice that you could roll over and bathe in, and so we are going to go.

In any case, it will be Good For Lucy, who is doing Theatre Studies at A Level, and has got to write about some theatre that she has seen. I don’t think that Cinderella at Christmas will be exactly what the examiners have got in mind.

We booked the tickets, there and then, before Mark had chance to be a voice of economic reason, and actually they weren’t terribly expensive, because if you are a student then you can get in for seven quid. 

All the same, it cleaned us out as thoroughly as caustic soda in a hair-clogged plughole. We were broke then.

We considered this thoughtfully.

It is not much fun to have an exciting holiday without the benefit of oodles of cash for lashing about. There is champagne to be drunk, books to be bought, and interesting food to be investigated.

We thought about this.

We decided that we would spend today making interesting food all of our own. Then we could take it with us, and not feel in the least deprived that all of the thrilling international cuisine on offer in Manchester was at least temporarily out of our reach.

Mark and I emptied the two pound coin collection yet again, and did all of the usual fund-raising activities, like going down the back of the taxi seats. In the end we had sufficient funds for a trip to Sainsbury’s where we purchased some raw materials.

I had the happy recollection that a friend of mine had recently sent me some recipe books, enthusiastically composed by Mr. Jamie Oliver, master of food which he describes as Funky. 

Funky sounded good to me.

We set to composing Funky Food.

The children joined in.

I made some barbecue sauce and spooned it underneath the skin of a chicken to marinate for a day or two before roasting. Then I peeled some vegetables and doused them in melted butter and garlic for the oven. 

The children made some tiny cakes and filled them with jam and whipped cream. Then I made a banana toffee pie, layered with whipped cream and yoghurt and creamy mascarpone cheese. 

Mark washed up, helpfully, and pegged the washing in the garden. 

We made fresh bread and cooked a huge tray of sausages. I made fudge and cooked smoked ham, and then the children made pasta. 

This was a huge project. I have not used my pasta making machine for almost ten years, but it was absolutely ace.

Separating egg yolks was a new experience for the children, and they both had to have a wash when they had finished. They kneaded and rolled and folded again and again and again, until they had an enormous stack of neatly trimmed cut pasta.

They hardly dropped it on the floor at all.

They looked at it critically and said that it was not much to show for an afternoon’s work, since you can buy a bag of dried pasta for a pound in the Co-op. I explained that the point of the exercise was that we would have our own personally lovely food, made just for us and far better than anything you could ever buy in the shop.

Mark laughed and said that it was that all right. It had all of our own personal dog hair and fluff, and bits of eggshell, none of which you ever found in pasta from the Co-op.

When it was cooked we mixed it with pine nuts and bacon and cream and red Leicester. Mark poured it into oven dishes, and we grated Wensleydale and black pepper over the top.

It looked ace. 

You could hardly notice the dog hairs.

We had just got to that stage when my parents, whom we are meeting at some time during our stay, and whom we had invited to join us for lunch, rang and very kindly offered to take us out for a Chinese instead.

We all looked at one another.

Of course we accepted without hesitation. Chinese food cooked by real Chinese people is always jolly good, and we like the chap at the China Buffet in Manchester very much indeed.

All the same, we have got so many things to eat now that we shall not manage to squeeze them all in, We will not be feeling in the least deprived. It is going to be the best of well-fed holidays.

We have got our very own Funky Dog Hair Pasta, just like Jamie Oliver makes.