The sticky mess flies high, arcing towards the huge gum tree growing off the back deck. ‘Thank goodness that’s gone’, I muse, as I march back inside to resume loud protestations against the efforts of the would-be cook.
Twelve eggs, 100 grams of Beluga caviar, a goodly measure of thinly sliced prosciutto, plain flour and a cup of French fizz – ‘to give it a lift’, he says, is wasted. It is one of the most expensive omelette disasters ever attempted; now gone to the heavens. I am ropeable.
The caviar is a treat, bought with some budgetary trepidation at the Prahran Market yesterday. It, and the bottle of Moet, are to be the centrepiece of our celebratory family gathering, following the children’s return last week, from their Balkan adventures.
The weather is absolutely perfect: one of those days that you want to bottle – late teens, heading for the mid-twenties, cloudless, a gentle zephyr tinkling the wind chimes, low humidity. The kids are arriving mid-morning, and I am downstairs washing the windows. It is nearly two years since we’ve been together as a family unit – I am humming a tuneless piece, reflecting my growing anticipation.
And then the bloody omelette! How could he? We now sit down to eggs, grilled tomatoes and some rancid bacon I find at the back of the fridge.
Excited, bubbly chatter largely overshadows my funk. A new apron, a souvenir from Dubrovnik, a small imitation bouzouki and a bottle of Grappa. Stories tumble over each other: missed trains; beach parties; new friends; drunken escapades; ancient cities, and Adriatic cruising.
The scratch brunch drifts towards a sleepy afternoon, me snoring on the couch, the kids retiring to the bedroom. John stacks the dishwasher, snivelling as he revisits the morning’s disaster.
With the kids out at the cinema, we have the evening to ourselves and the argument recommences. “Half the weekly shopping budget blown!” “What were you thinking?” Recriminations explode like hand grenades.
It takes a couple of days for my indignation to settle, but detente is eventually achieved; white flags are waved and normal communication resumes. I know I can sometimes be a prig; but that bloody caviar!
It is a few weeks later, and I am mowing the lawns. I have forgotten about my food-disposal routine. Mid-morning carolling from our tribe of magpies, seven of them, has me looking up. Four metres from the ground, where the foliage is starting to thicken, a new nest is in evidence. Our tribe are out on adjacent limbs, possibly riding shotgun for the expanding family’s fortunes.
What is that white slickness poking out? It looks like a rubber mat and I get the ladder and climb to a nearby vantage. Not rubber, exactly, but rather our ex-omelette, neatly inter-spliced with the sticks and feathers. I had to laugh. I hope someone enjoyed that Beluga!
Back on the lawn, I continue to chuckle, realising philosophically, that one family’s disaster can morph, and provide a useful supplement to fill another’s needs.