Sunday supper & Trump’s soggy sandwiches
A quick post as Sunday supper approaches. Mum’s convinced that Trump is one of the carers in the home, poor man. He has blond hair, but that’s about it. “His toast is soggy rubbish”, ok mum, I’m sure he can make you some fresh toast. “Not on your life! I’ll just have a sausage” A sausage? At tea time? “Yes, at tea time, although don’t forget about the liver”. Well and truly trumped by that one. I know that there are no sausages and I can only imagine that she’s recalling some of her gastronomic wonders from yesteryear. I’ve told you about the porridge already, so here are a few more recipes: mashed potato with chopped raw liver mixed in (it takes too long to cook both things), boiled egg with cucumber soldiers (so what if the yolk falls off) and eggy milk; yolks, milk and sugar mixed around twice (boxers have it and they’re strong, so it’ll make you strong too Sonia darling). However, mum’s cakes were the best things in the world … light, fluffy, bursting with flavour, jammy and perfect. She told me that her mum had taught her only one thing in her life and that was how to make a Victoria sandwich. Thanks Nanny Ellis – for mum, her cakes, her ‘alternative” cuisine and view on the world.
Mum thinks my Sunday supper of chicken roasted in garlic, honey, lemon and sage is a bit above myself. And as for having salad with it … “keep food simple like I do. I love toast”. Night, Mum.