We rolled into town on a small pink unicorn named Joe. Strange name for a unicorn I know, but it was inherited from his previous owner.
There was no fanfare, zero celebration and we were not even acknowledged by the town hobbit. But I couldn’t hold this against the place… could I?
Immediately my face started scouring the sea side village street scape for suitable eating houses, because that’s just what it does when we’re on holidays… and pretty much every other day. It spied the fisherman’s co-op so I rewarded it with a slap up seafood feast. Nice. A great start to any holiday. My face thanked me for feeding it oysters and fish and prawns, and in return it let me smile for a minute or two. Nice face… nice face.
Earlier it was passed that our eldest son, Seba, was going to cook dinner tonight so we set about getting the necessary ingredients for “Gall amb vi del priorat” (or chicken in red wine) from Frank Commora’s book “MoVida Rustica”. Looks damn fine I must admit, but somehow the kid managed to blag the cooking side of things in favour of splashing around in the river and a jaunt to the park… bloody kids these days. No sense of responsibility or fulfilment of promises. Taking into account his age (7) I decided I would cut him a little slack, put the stock whip away and get my ass into the quaint little seaside cottage kitchen. I LOVE electric cooktops… about as useful as a hatful of trousers. I’m not even sure what that was meant to mean…