I’m a champion channel surfer. I’m sure this is an extremely irritating habit. Fortunately Merlot doesn’t mind. As long as she can sit on my lap, I can hop around like the Easter bunny.
I recently landed on a programme about American women who have the hots for blokes in prison. Now we all have our little oddities, so I hardly think any of us can judge. This did get me thinking about one’s last meal though.
I can’t imagine that I’d have much of an appetite if I knew it was my actual last meal. But as long as it remains theoretical, contemplating my menu selection is quite fun.
My last-meal list is long. Champagne, gigantic Mozambique prawns, melkkos, vetkoek with home-made apricot jam and sushi all make the cut. And pasta, of course.
I think I get this from my gran. A Ceronio of Italian descent, she thought it a mighty fine idea to settle down on a farm… with a Van der Merwe. I imagine she learnt quite quickly not to name the farm animals. Probably not the best idea to get too friendly with the Sunday roast. Leg of lamb was indeed obligatory every Sunday.
But my favourite, favourite was the pasta sauce she made with the other, less glamorous, bits of the lamb. Slow cooking it for at least an hour with white wine and bacon, then thickening it right at the end with the yolk of an egg, with a generous handful of parsley thrown in and lemon to cut through all that richness. She made it 50 years ago and I make it still. I think that’s just grand.