On my way back to the midlands then up north for a funeral, so it’s either an excuse for some crap fast-food (a not-very-guilty pleasure now and again) or waiting until I get to the folks to raid their cupboards.
As luck would have it, I’m able to get an earlier train and when mentioning the early arrival my dad this is what he declares he’s cooking for tea (sic – it was a senior-style text message). “Peruvian yak sausage, and abasnian potato mash with black onion gravy followed by Indonesian plum pie with sunshine custard.” Needless to say I duly told him it sounded shite and he should try harder.
Author’s note: Nar, I don’t have any idea what abasnian is either, or in fact what he may have been trying to text, but either way, I bet they have good fictional potatoes.
Author’s second note: To put this in context, when my mum started her own business, my dad was tasked with cooking the family fare of an evening. Not previously a culinary-type, his first ventures of pink or blue rice, red potatoes and almost entirely gravy-based fun were always massively appreciated and adored by us three. He’s now a damn good cook. Experimental of course, a term used in the most lovingly euphemistic way, but I’m assured by various recipients that his baked beans with chorizo and shortcrust cabbage pies take some beating.
Author's third note: The photo is of my dad's homemade fruit pie. Apple and morello cherry jam from Lidl. A classic apparently.
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