Went to Mum and Dad’s today for Mothers’ Day. I took Mum a bunch of flowers and, as arranged, cooked a roast dinner for them so we could share some wine, using their boring shop-bought glasses, and have a chat while I was cooking in the kitchen.
I put the roast in the oven, and Mum kept coming into the kitchen, fiddling around, wanting to make the gravy, turning on the oven light to look at the roast, and so on.
We chatted for an hour or so, Mum and Dad giving me all the details of their recent cruise, arguing over whether they had pasta or rice on the Tuesday night, when I realised something was amiss. No cooking smells. Mum had turned the oven off, and the meat was as raw as when I had carefully placed it in it.
Dad saved the day with his Weber.
Anyway, had an acceptable night, all things considered.
Christopher probably doesn’t know it’s Mother’s Day in Australia.