Spark In Darkness

 Beloved: What's for dinner?

 

Me: beef wellington, wine sauce, sauteed spinach, sauteed potatoes and cauliflower puree. Also pate, crisp bread and cake.

 

Beloved:.... Marry me.

 

Me: I already did

 

Beloved: That's because I'm awesome and have super power of foresight.

 

Me: And saw this meal?

 

Beloved: Exactly.

 

Me: But you haven't eaten yet, it could be awful?

 

Beloved: if it is then I would have foreseen it and wouldn't have married you so you wouldn't have cooked it.

 

Me: So... if this meal is bad we have a paradox?

 

Beloved: Yes, the whole timeline will collapse and the world ends.

 

Me:... I better check the seasoning then.

 

Beloved: uh-huh. OR the Doctor will come and put things right and we can them ambush him and become Companions

 

Me: Do you think he'd take us?

 

Beloved: he took Pond.

 

Me: Gods no - I'm not getting all excited hear the Tardis arriving, running out and seeing the 11th doctor. That'd be cosmically unfair.

 

Beloved: then you better check the seasoning - end of the world or being stuck on the Tardis with Pond and Not!Tenant.

 

 

 

Thankfully for the world (and our not becoming the first companions to murder the other companions, imprison the doctor and repeatedly kill him until he regenerated into Tenant again) the seasoning was perfect.

 After a couple of weeks of doing nothing but poke obsessively at Fangs (due to current bad mooseness I’m on all hands-on-deck mode in a classic obsessive need to DO ALL THE THINGS) and poke obsessively at work and occasionally poke obsessively at various other projects (which also somewhat explains my not entire presence here or on twitter which may continue for some time), Beloved decided I needed a break and booked tickets for the Great British Food Festival; a nice day out where I could indulge all my foody leanings.

 

See, he can be a good one when he chooses.

 

Ok there were hiccoughs. No.1 was his insistence that the festival is pretty close until our Satnav informed us that the site, Shugborough Hall, which is in Staffordshire, aka FREAKING MILES AWAY. This meant getting up at yefuckinggods o’clock on a Sunday morning. (Also worth noting, yes Staffordshire is a pretty pretty county and yes those olde timey hump-back bridges are pretty – but single lane blind humpback bridges allowing 2 way traffic is a whole new form of quaint and picturesque terror).

 

 

The Good:

Food! There were so many food stalls with so many things cooked and just begging me to try! Food of all kinds, lots of local produce, lots of different cooking styles, a few odd exotics (kangaroo?). You could walk around buying and eating stuff and trying all the wonderful things. If I had even the slightest complaint, it’s that too many of the stalls didn’t embrace the idea that we want to TRY ALL THE THINGS and needed to sell food in smaller portions

Price! Ok it wasn’t cheap – certainly not the drink (but zomg! Scrumpy slushies! REAL scrumpy! And crushed ice!) – but nor was it price-gougy ridiculous that you often expect at these things (except the lemonade. I don’t care if it is home made from diamond encrusted lemons and limes, £3.50 is silly).

 

Produce! Ok there was the craft fare clinging to a corner (who goes to those things?) but other than that there were lots of butchers, brewers, wine makers, cheese makers, bakers et al providing a gazillion free samples of truly awesome yumminess; including some amazing infused oils and a rhubarb and Custard cordial. Rhubarb and Custard drink that is just so good. Some of these stalls were good enough that I didn’t just eat samples and buy stuff, but made a note of the company so I can find the nearest supplier (Snowdon cheese? Your whiskey cheese owns my Soul!)

 

Cooking demonstrations, a local chef gets up on stage and cooks and shows us how; these probably needed a bigger tent because they were popular. We caught 2. The first was really excellent – funny, clever and informative. Ok what he cooked wasn’t complicated, I’ve done it before, but he had ideas and techniques and hints that I hadn’t.

 

---

 

The second one was also pretty fun to watch – but he was far more ambitious and not nearly as good at explaining what he was doing or why (like the first chef would tell us what oil he was using and why). It was hard to keep track since he did 3 dishes simultaneously and he rather liked more obscure ingredients (and don’t you just hate chefs who can’t cook a meal without special braised antelope horn or mermaid pubic hair?) He seemed much more interested in promoting himself – to an extent where I was rolling my eyes and muttering at the guy to get over himself. Still it was good to watch and fun.

 

 

The Bad:

There was a shuttle bus taking you from the car park to the site, but it wasn’t clearly labelled. More to the point, no-one was warned that the site is actually an incredible hike over 10 squillion fields. A sign would have been nice “Here is the bus. If you don’t want to take the bus, have 3 hours to waste and are experienced in cross country hikes – by all means walk”.  The walk is especially fun because there are hedges that block vision, and each time you reach one you THINK you’ve made it – and then there’s another field in front of you.

 

SHADE! It was probably the hottest, sunniest day of the year yesterday* and the only real shade available was in crowded tents displaying things which were even hotter than the outside due to the crush of people. There was a lot of seating (and more places to sprawl on the grass) but it was all in full sunlight. I’m amazed there weren’t people dropping like flies from the sunstroke

 

Crowds! ZOMG SO MANY PEOPLE!** (To be fair, lots of people but few queues or blockages)

 

Live Music! The singer was… moderate. And, being of moderate talent, he should really really really leave Adele’s songs alone.

  

 

I am willing to declare this day a success, but now I need to sleep for a month. And eat all the things.

 

  

*Beloved is currently unable to MOVE from sunburn. And he even, for once, acceded to my demand that he must must must wear suncream. And that there is no way his Scandanavian skin tone was ever, ever going to tan; sunlight was not something his genetic line has ever been exposed to. But even with precautions he’s suffering today. Even I’m feeling warm along my arms

 

 

**Which is why I am currently unable to do almost anything because I had a full blown ZOMG CROWDS splodey brain which is bad and I will talk about elsewhere because I don’t want my bad brain chemistry overshadowing what was a good day and a good thing

Being under the weather I couldn’t face cooking – odd I’m not nauseous or not hungry, but I am hellaciously exhausted.

Which is a problem – because there’s WANTING to eat, yet not being able to cook and facing… Beloved’s offer to cook instead.

There follows the sudden moment when I desperately try to think of what is in the freezer – surely there must be something ready made? Something I’ve already cooked that Beloved just needs to defrost and warm up? Something he can’t ruin too much? Maybe…

It’s like a scene from a horror movie where the protagonist is desperately trying to remember if they’ve locked all the doors, or think of a way out or where there’s a weapon and in a panic they just can’t remember and the monster – the horrific ghastly monster – is just getting closer!

And I have to remember exactly what I’ve frozen – I mean, I know I HAVE frozen meals because I always do… but if I say “yes I fancy lasagne” and it turns out that I haven’t frozen a lasagne, Beloved will then attempt to make a lasagne. The very idea makes me want to cower in terror.

I could say “go see what I’ve frozen because you cannot cook and will kill us all if you try!” but then he will INSIST on cooking to prove that he CAN cook and then he will EAT whatever he cooks and declare it delicious even though it’s a complete and utter lie and the toxic slop can’t even be fed to the cat without us being arrested for animal cruelty. Then I go without food and have to put up with Beloved making himself ill.

So I declare I will cook. A creative lie helps allay suspicion – cooking helps me relax, cooking will take my mind off things, cooking will be good for me! Ha - better for me than poisoning at any rate

Except exhaustion means I don’t do the sensible thing and go rooting in the freezer early enough to defrost and I eventually roll into the kitchen only when too hungry to do anything else (and Beloved was making threatening moves in that direction).

I could have ordered take away, but Beloved lived on it while we were away and looked faintly green at the suggestion.

So… cheese. Screw it, cheese, crackers, fruit and bread (that which is still fresh). We always have immense amounts of cheese lurking in the bottom of the fridge, in the salad crisper to make sure anything green and leafy and healthy is aware that this is a calorie loving household and not to get too comfortable.

Ok not the most involved of meals but we love cheese and eating up some of the vast stock isn’t a bad thing. Except... the brie

 I don’t know where this brie comes from but we always have this massive wheel of brie. Now I’m not against brie, we both quite like brie. A little brie now and then is a good thing. A little – so why do we always have this huge great wheel of cheese that could feed half of France? I would accuse Beloved but I can’t see him getting enthusiastic enough about brie to buy this – if it were cheddar or wensleydale, yes – but not brie. Maybe we have a crafty cheesemonger who can manipulate him into inundating us with unwanted French cheese? Beloved swears it’s not him and I know it’s not me – so if no-one is buying brie where does it keep coming from? Do we have a secret brie mine? The brie elves visit? Or maybe it’s breeding….

 Then there’s the eternal stilton. Now this, I do know where the Eternal Stilton comes from. My uncle – who has given us out own bodyweight in stilton every damn Christmas ever. He does the same with everyone, I don’t think he has ever given anyone a gift that wasn’t a metric fuckton of stilton. His kids first birthday? Stilton. Wife’s anniversary? Stilton. Daughter’s wedding? Stilton! I think he must have shares in the dairy.

 Sure it’s nice in a few recipes – but how much strong blue cheese can you just eat? It’s not like you can put it in sandwiches!

 Even if we liked stilton, this package is too much. No-one likes stilton this much. It’s not actually possible to like stilton this much. Eating this much stilton would actually kill someone. It doesn’t help that it’s in a ceramic container so doesn’t rot and reach a point where it can be thrown away – especially since, as it’s blue cheese, it doesn’t really go off anyway

 But it does get more… pungent. It is now locked in its little ceramic box and… we dare not open it. And if we dare not open it, we cannot check it to see if it is time to throw it away. But the ceramic lid fits really tightly. It’s sealed, I think.

So it remains, in the cheese drawer. Tightly sealed. Watching. Waiting. One day it plans to escape.

 And then may the gods have mercy on us all.

So Beloved and I are having a brief little tussle.

 We have a doorstop in our kitchen. And I hate it.

 Firstly, you have to understand I like my barriers. I hate open plan. I like my walls. I like closed doors. I like curtains drawn. I like a house to be made of lots of little boxes that can be nicely sealed away from the outside world. And a door’s default state should be CLOSED.

 I also cook. I don’t want the door open when I’m cooking, smoke and grease and cooking smells permeate the house and sink into the soft furnishings. This is common sense.

Beloved leaves doors open. This annoys me, I’m constantly closing them after him and plotting revenge

 But in the kitchen? He uses a doorstop. WHY?! Why would you want to prop the door open?! He claims it’s because he often has to leave the kitchen with hands full of plates and pots. This is not an excuse, the door is easily opened and he does that maybe once a day. But he uses the stop, which I have to fight with and kick across the floor several times a day. And the times I’ve stood on it in bare feet

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it

 And now I’ve thrown it away

 An hour before the binmen came. Beloved couldn’t rescue it. We now don’t have a doorstop.

 VICTORY!

 I emerge victorious from the field of battle, battered and with sore feet, I did prevail and the doors are now closed.

 Beloved is now amused. Beloved is plotting revenge. I will be ready for him.

There are some things that are never good, some things that are guaranteed to cause panic.

And one of those things is a phone call at 4:00am. That nearly always means something is on fire or someone has died. Or, well, in my case, it means I'm on call and someone needs me to turf out to the police station and/or swear at them and tell them to say nothing until morning and I've had some sleep. I'm told the latter is unprofessional. I say professional and 4:00am are mutually exclusive concepts.

So when the phone rang this morning I was pertubed, even more so when I recognised the voice not of my work place, but of one of my many cousins, I was concerned and ready to give condlences (he lives in California, leaping into action is a somewhat limited option).

Cousin: Sparky! I need your help

Sparky: Don't worry, take a deep breath, I'm here (what? My family's prone to excessive panic). What do you need?

Cousin: oh... I just wanted you to help organise a few things for our trip


Sparky: Your trip?

Cousin: yeah, we're coming home in October for a few weeks, thought you'd be the best person to organise it, being all legal and all (Not that he needed legal help, but he had forgotten whether he was a British citizen or not. As may be guessed, he's not well known in the family for his intelligence)

Sparky: Is there a deadline or something?

Cousin: No... I thought this would be a good time?

Sparky:... What time do you think it is?

Cousin: 8:00 by my watch


Sparky:... I mean here.

Cousin: Lunctime?

Sparky:... We're 8 hours ahead of you. Not behind, not unless the Earth started rotating the other way.

Cousin: Oh... so what time is it?

Sparky: 4:00. In the morning.

Cousin: Ah...

Sparky: You might want to think twice about crossing the Atlantic. I can reach you on this side. *hands up*

Which is annoying.

But what is more annoying? Is Socks, the cat, noticing this.

Socks: You are awake. That means you should be stroking me *nuzzle nuzzle*

Sparky: Go away cat, I'm alseep

Socks: Such lies you tell. *nuzzle nuzzle*

Sparky: Beloved wants to play *picks up cat* *deposits on Beloved*

Beloved: *has anticipated and burrowed under the covers until only a few square inches of blond hair are visible* *produces very unrealistic snore*

Socks: *returns to me* Stroke me human *nuzzle*

Sparky: If the cat keeps me awake all night I'm going to be grumpy and make everyone around me suffer

Beloved: You're at work today, not my problem.

Sparky:A ha! You're awake *deposits cat on him again*

Beloved: Talking in my sleep *unrealistic snores start again*

What is more vexing is that insomnia has robbed me of sleep all damn week. And now, the first night with actual sleep? The universe hates me.

It was Sunday, it was early (opinion is divided as to how early. I think it was “You’re shitting me O’clock” Beloved believes it was “virtually night time!” I think I’m right – if it were nearly night time my aim would have been better) when I was rudely rousted from my bed, forced to get dressed and bundled in the car with a flask of coffee and a bread roll.

I drank the entire flask of coffee. And we stopped at a coffee shop for a giant cup of coffee to go. And an iced coffee that I drank right after that. At this point I was capable of polysyllabic communication and realised a) we were out of coffee! STOP! And b) where the hell were we actually going and why?

“You’ll see!” was the only answer, with an annoying about of chipperness. I was to “enjoy the ride.” And apparently “enjoying the ride” means I’m not allowed to pull out the kindle and read.

After a moment of driving (and watching for a coffee shop) beloved has paroxysm of delight because he can see… the SEA! I do not even slightly understand Beloved’s fascination with salt water.

We arrive at the beach and he throws off his shirt and runs to cavort in the sea (salt water does not go near my hair. Ever) under the blazing sun (seriously, it was ridiculously hot) while I drop in at a local chemist and ask for SPF 9,000,000 sun cream and some aftersun for the inevitable and flop down on a blanket on the beach (to keep away that horrible horrible sand. I hate sand) with my kindle. Beloved eventually flops down to dry in the sun and I get to slather a thick, creamy substance all over his half naked body. (He protests, as usual that he wants to tan. Every year he tries to tan. He has the skin tone of Edward Cullen. He cannot tan).

While I am, grudigingly, inclined to admit that a day on the beach (so long as one can avoid the evil of sand and the vileness of salt water) eating ice creams and drinking coffee isn’t the worst way to spend the day (but ye gods it was hot) but I put my foot down at picnicking on the beach. Sand and food do not mix.

So, after using the blanket to protect the car from Beloved who was now salty, slimy, sandy and sweaty (despite vigorous towelling on his part to convince me to let him come near me while being all manky. See, this is why I can’t get behind the sexiness of the beach – sure there’s eye candy but it’s yucky as well) and moved more inland to green and pleasant pastures.

After I grudgingly accepting that we weren’t, necessarily, going to be inundated and overwhelmed by ants, wasps, flies and snarks, we unloaded Beloved’s picnic. Which contains all the excess food we’d BBQed on Saturday, fresh bread, butter and other baked lovelies and pickles. And no cutlery. Ah Beloved. (Did you know it’s quite easy to spread butter on bread with a credit card?)

I have conceded that actually being outside isn’t entirely awful all of the time. Just most of the time. And if he wakes me up before 11:00 on a Sunday again I may kill him

So I'm toiling away in the kitchen cooking a Sunday dinner for Beloved and several guests when they announce they havew taken steps to help me.

They have shopped

Shopped *crack of thunder*

And they have bought... frozen yorkshire puddings. Here I am, bowl full of perfect batter in the fridge, in Yorkshire no less, and they bring frozen yorkshire puddings into my house.

And they have bought... stuffing. A pre-packed, dehydrated stuffing mix. It resembles bird food. And, of course, I have made not one, not two, but three kinds of stuffing myself.

And then... THEN... they revealed the frozen roast potatoes. With my own gems sizzling away in the oven.

As if this weren't enough to already justify me blending them into gravy - they then revealed the pudding. The frozen cake. A horrible, artificial looking, FROZEN CAKE.

The cake alone would cause even the mildest of cooks to launch themselves across the room, whisk upraised in berserker rage. And for those roast potatoes then we have no choice but to summon the horde. Yes, this outrage demands barbarians - Call the Goths, raise the Huns.

And they actually showed me their purchases while I was in the kitchen. With knives and fire in easy reach! And bladed devices powered by electricity! What reckless courage is this?!

Needless to say, words were exchanged

Sparky: *at work doing worky things*

Colleague: *wanders into room* aaargh can you check this for me? I lost my contacts and these glasses are giving me a headache, they're too old

Sparky: *gape*

Colleague: Yeah they're hideous, can't wait til I get new contacts.

Secretary: *enters* *gasp*

Colleague: Yeah theyr'e horrible aren't they? Can you do those files?

Sparky: Murf...

Secretary: meep.

Colleague: Thanks...

Colleague#2: enters *chokes*

Colleague: They're not that bad!

Colleague#2: wurble.

Sparky: ugh?

Secretary: meeeeeeeep.

Colleague: Fine, they're horrible, I get it *sulks off*

Sparky: When did he get hot?!

Colleague#2: Magical Glasses of Hotness. Or he's drugged the coffee.

Secretary: I'm taking the rest of the day off. Going to threaten his optician with pain and death if he dares to give him contact lenses ever again

So, it’s about, oh, 4:00am, everyone’s asleep when…

Beloved: Sparky! Wake up!
Sparky: Ugh, ow
Beloved: You were having a nightmare *concern face* are you ok?
Sparky: *fighting out of bad dreams* Ick… yeah
Beloved: Do you want to talk about it?***
Sparky: It was horrible. We were cut off from the internet. Completely shut down, a lifetime ban. And I appealed and thought it and took it through the courts but I couldn’t change it.
Beloved: And then?
Sparky: You woke me up.
Beloved: Your nightmare was to be cut off from the internet?
Socks: *growls, stalks off in disgust at the noisy humans*
Sparky: Yes,
Beloved: Addict. *rolls over*
Sparky: hey, traumatised by nightmare here
Beloved: Go to sleep, maybe they’ll cut off your coffee next.




***Beloved is a veteran of many many night terrors on my part. He’s learned to deal with my midnight flailing with skill and care. Though it occurs to me that it’s been a while since I’ve had full blown night terrors, certainly the sort that went on for a while.