(posted by Mike)
Friday night in us Country Pile. K is preparing a fish recipe from the marvellous Claudia Roden Italian cookery book which Sasha gave us a few weeks ago. He's chopping basil; I'm watching telly in the front room.
The calm is abruptly punctured by an extended string of the sort of Words which I am not about to inflict upon the residents of Cheadle. Delivered not with the noisy theatricality which normally accompanies his foul-mouthed cadenzas (some people might call this "showing off to get attention"), but with a kind of whispered, winded urgency. Proper swearing.
(Aside: maybe those of us who routinely pepper our daily discourse with "Language" have devalued its power to such an extent that, when we really need to swear, we have to resort to inventing new tones of voice.)
Scuttling into the kitchen, I find K doubled up in agony. Colour is visibly draining from his face, and heading straight for the tip of his finger. Sometimes, those Zwilling Henckels can be a wee bit too efficacious for comfort.
Between gasps, he forces out a request. Could I sift through the chopped basil, and remove any chunks of flesh which I might find?
Gives a whole new meaning to the term "finger food", doesn't it?
Ka-tish. I'm here all week.
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