My expletive follows the paring knife’s momentary slip, it’s a small nick across both my pinky and index fingers. I suck the fingers as I go to the bathroom cupboard and apply a couple of band aids. I briefly reflect on my four-year-old grandson’s probable jealousy of my colourful strips!
I go back into the kitchen, the large mixing bowl has quite a few drops of blood on the sides and down, across the onions. Bugger, they were my last ones. I chuck the vegetables out. What else do I need from the shops, I ponder as I grab a couple of bags, phone, keys and leave the house.
The family Christmas lunch; my contribution: two large trays of Lasagna. Thank God I was at the beginning of the prep. I buy a bag of onions, I still have everything else, but maybe another box of wine and I think Matthew needs another whiskey. Maybe a couple of bottles of fizz, the Skillogalee Sparkling Riesling is on special.
Home again. I wander into the garden and pick a small bunch of oregano, a handful of basil and from the shed, break off a garlic clove from one of the dried braids. Back in the kitchen I have the onions diced, the blended pork and beef mince browning, the water is on the hob, ready to soften the noodles. The tide has gone out in my glass. Just another small splash.
I transfer the meat, onion, the finely chopped herbs and a jar of our tomato passata to a saucepan and gently cook the brew. My secret ingredient, a slug of Sweet Vermouth goes in. I use the booze instead of sugar, to offset the acidic tomatoes.
I butter the trays, Mum’s old Figgjo ones; she loved them, bought on one of her European sojourns, in Oslo. They’re perfect for Lasagna; 2” deep, 12” long and they have assumed treasured status in my own cookware cupboard. I flick the oven onto 180.
My cheese sauce is made – Cottage cheese, parmesan, an egg, seasoning and then the first layer goes into the trays. A meat layer follows, pasta, another sauce, meat, pasta, three layers in total and a final heavy-handed layer of mozzarella.
Two beautiful lasagnas but as I open the oven door, horror of horrors: I only have one band aid on my hand! I search the bench. I tip out the compost bucket and inspect the onion peel and the dag ends of the herbs. Nope, nothing. Not in the sink, on the floor. Oh bloody hell!
I gently lift the edges of the layers. I dig a little deeper in the hope of a find. Nothing! I take a slug of wine. Hey, Matthew and I can eat these, so while still in the trays, I cut each of them into four double meal portions and pop them into the oven. I will ring the local takeaway and order two family-sized Lasagnas: nobody will ever know the difference.