Ones chef chum turns up. Lower half-clad in a bejewelled kaftan, top half looking like a badly camouflaged mercenary at jewel fest. ” Look at these! “

‘These‘ were her shanghaied, lovely, big, fat, rose hips and drapes of elder berries all clutched to ample bosom, she’s further clasping an armful gladioli in the style of Dame Edna, a bottle of ‘Pooh’ and a plethora of pears.

 

  

  

 

The low evening sun dapples through the spectacularly colourful shrubbery of her ample, autumnal décolletage.  She heads toward the fridge who rattled and shuddered his ice department. (“Oh no, not her again!”)

Admittedly they were luscious rose hips, but her insistence badly timed.”Ohh….Go on” she lilts so lyrically “Take pictures of these”. Oh you must do something with these, where do you want them?”  as she portaled her accordion of psychedelic wares around and around the empty kitchen and surrounding areas.

 

  

 

“I don’t think they’d fit where I’d like to shove them right now m’dear”?  After she finishes her quick opera moment, followed by a pause, then riotous laughter, from the Darling Diva et al. The racket, the garb and sudo-bejewelled-camouflage is for a simple relaxed ‘at home before half the house is demolished by way of a long overdue refurb and extension.

 

  

 

Hence her remit: pudding monitor for our supper party, she turns up with a flat-bed truck-load of meringues for a ‘Pav’ or two. A magnificent brownie (I found to be suffocating under weight as she’d lobbed a box of chocolates as a topping – just for good measure, you understand ). No time to take a photo = demolished!  A pear frangipane.” Oh there’s and a chocolate and Guinness cake in case you get peckish”.

 

  

 

At that point Eric (the fridge) actually broke ranks and groaned, his tummy turned (screw like mechanism to break the ice) he did a quick Watusi, shimmied and rattled his ice trough in thorough disdain.

Eric and I had, however, anticipated there wouldn’t be the cream, fruits or nuts to dress madams ‘pav’. “Got any cream, mascarpone?” she shrills.  Moments later the kitchen looks very pretty! ‘Eric the disillusioned’ is sullen, quietly terrified that she may lob something else in his direction in her ebullient operatic style.

 

  

 

Whilst clearing away the remainder of the, very pretty, aftermath the following morning I find said pears. Half of which need to be used, fairly pronto. As is the way with pears, they were softening before my eyes. Swift simplicity becomes an absolute necessity as the demolition crew bash and crash through walls.  Ones plethora of ‘pearage’ need to be swiftly converted before they become mighty mush on the compost heap. The remainder ( reminiscent of misshapen cricket balls ) will accompany me to my temporary kitchen in the conservatory for considered conversion.

 

  

  

 

 

Hence pastoral pears meet sprightly ginger in a close encounter of the palpable and pulp-able kind too. To the backing track of pneumatic drills, wall demolition and skips filling with glass and debris.  I’m hugely time, and space, short as rooms are being demolished around me. Stoically ones ice cream machine is hastily sloshed under a tap that still works and together we refuse to be distracted by the bevy of body-beautiful builders and in my new role as Mrs Overall, I’m more than happy to be tea lady to such a fervent bunch.  Two of them are fellow Earl Grey-ists need I say more?  So quite literally, as the walls come tumbling down, the succulence of pear is combined with purring warmth of ginger on the palette.

 

  

 

The sultry flesh of the ripe pears swiftly prepared with the contents of a two-thirds of jar of ginger in syrup, (yes, yes I scoffed the rest, don’t judge me).  For additional infused liquid, a splosh of the Earl Grey tea from the pot.  Peeled, whizzed, uncooked, loosely frozen in the ice-cream-time-machine for speed then subsequently lobbed into the only unpacked and suitable vessel I could find (ziplock bag) before being lain into Erics safe and tender care.  (He doesn’t realise he’s off on holiday to the conservatory, we should keep this between ourselves. He won’t be happy so… shhh for now).

 

  

  

  

 

There’s a lush, hush- blush tone to the sorbet.  An elegant Autumnal hue of the light and delicate pear, a flicker of bergamot gathers lightly on the palette followed by the unanticipated warmth and esprit of ginger, frankly it’s pure autumnal gold.

 

Toot toot x

 

 

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