The work do. That unique cocktail of duty, deference, dread, drama and dignity. It exists in many forms - from the snatched coffee at the nearest coffee shop to the full black-tied, multi-coursed, competitively-dressed, formal, vast-venued dinner with all sizes and shapes of gathering in between. They are associated with a stalwart we-are-all-in-this-together mentality and are, we are told, proven to be good for team work and bonding. So we commit to the do, even if staying in to clean and re-grout the bath might be a more attractive or more appealing option for an evening's entertainment.
Attending your partner's work do might elevate bleaching the loo to a preferred way to pass the hours. However, however, however ... my cheeks are burning as I admit that it needn't be so.
If the dread can be swept under the carpet and the gossip suppressed and the bitchy 'I can't believe she's wearing that' tongues bitten, it can be fun. When your partner's colleagues are mostly friends, then a work do should be fun. Hard work - yes. Dreaded because of all the preparation and the fact that it will be outside and the defeat on display that is the annual battle between gardener and weed and the worry that it might rain and sticky fingers and glasses of wine will invade the house - yes to all of those. But ultimately it will be fun. Well ... cheeks burning again ... if not exactly fun, then, not exactly unpleasant either.
Instead, it becomes a camaraderie of those manning the sink and gathering the empties and filling the rubbish bags and clearing the plates and loading the dishwasher. And finding some paper and a pen for the child who wants suddenly to write a letter to grandma and then showing her how to write grandma. And forcing a smile when more children present you with all the fruit they found and picked. And making coffee. And magically producing another football when the first one got lost. And serving the ice creams and telling the colleague that the flake he wants is quite probably in the hedge at the bottom of the garden so why doesn't he go and look for it there. And then laughing because you both realise that the sarcasm was unnecessary and a bit silly. And hugging the son who turns up unexpectedly mid-afternoon and can always be relied upon to provide excellent hugs. And wondering where the time went and why there's so much food left. And where the dinosaur came from (! - yes; small plastic and lovingly chewed) and whether the child who left it will be able to sleep. And thinking about the garden bench but still not sitting in it. And hoping that there's nothing left on the ground that Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins shouldn't eat. And finally stopping. When the last car has left. And noticing the silence. And noticing just how much lettuce is left.
Lettuce soup:
chopped onions
sliced spring onions
olive oil or butter (depending on whether your family is lactose intolerant too)
masses of lettuce (shred or tear the bigger bits)
vegetable stock
salt and lime pepper
juice of a lemon
chopped tomatoes
spoon of Indian spices
fresh basil
chopped garlic
if not vegetarian then I guess some shredded ham hock might be good.
Attending your partner's work do might elevate bleaching the loo to a preferred way to pass the hours. However, however, however ... my cheeks are burning as I admit that it needn't be so.
If the dread can be swept under the carpet and the gossip suppressed and the bitchy 'I can't believe she's wearing that' tongues bitten, it can be fun. When your partner's colleagues are mostly friends, then a work do should be fun. Hard work - yes. Dreaded because of all the preparation and the fact that it will be outside and the defeat on display that is the annual battle between gardener and weed and the worry that it might rain and sticky fingers and glasses of wine will invade the house - yes to all of those. But ultimately it will be fun. Well ... cheeks burning again ... if not exactly fun, then, not exactly unpleasant either.
Instead, it becomes a camaraderie of those manning the sink and gathering the empties and filling the rubbish bags and clearing the plates and loading the dishwasher. And finding some paper and a pen for the child who wants suddenly to write a letter to grandma and then showing her how to write grandma. And forcing a smile when more children present you with all the fruit they found and picked. And making coffee. And magically producing another football when the first one got lost. And serving the ice creams and telling the colleague that the flake he wants is quite probably in the hedge at the bottom of the garden so why doesn't he go and look for it there. And then laughing because you both realise that the sarcasm was unnecessary and a bit silly. And hugging the son who turns up unexpectedly mid-afternoon and can always be relied upon to provide excellent hugs. And wondering where the time went and why there's so much food left. And where the dinosaur came from (! - yes; small plastic and lovingly chewed) and whether the child who left it will be able to sleep. And thinking about the garden bench but still not sitting in it. And hoping that there's nothing left on the ground that Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins shouldn't eat. And finally stopping. When the last car has left. And noticing the silence. And noticing just how much lettuce is left.
Lettuce soup:
chopped onions
sliced spring onions
olive oil or butter (depending on whether your family is lactose intolerant too)
masses of lettuce (shred or tear the bigger bits)
vegetable stock
salt and lime pepper
juice of a lemon
chopped tomatoes
spoon of Indian spices
fresh basil
chopped garlic
if not vegetarian then I guess some shredded ham hock might be good.
No ... I seldom measure anything. Just guess and go with what you've got and what experience tells you looks right - be honest, it's what you'd end up doing even if you started by measuring things anyway ... unless of course you're a man.
Lettuce soup was good soup. And the work do was not at all bad either. Bit ashamed tbh that I implied it might be otherwise.
... I'm off to apply a cold flannel to my burning cheeks.
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