Saturday is the only day I don’t work, and thus my favorite day of the week. I can sleep in, not have to worry about running late for anything, and go to bed early if I feel like it - which I almost always do.
Saturday is also market day. Richmond has the only weekly street market left in Victoria, and our gorgeous neighbours have got us addicted to the unbelievably cheap fruit and vegetables and community vibe, so we go and buy more than we can ever eat, have loads of coffee (Miss M has babychinos, much to her disgust), then stagger home with my groovy Kmart nanna trolley full of healthy goods. Miss M has recently discovered how to do flips on swings, so we also have to stop by the park for some beginner gymnastics.
Yesterday something strange happened after our market trip. I had a huge urge to be domestic, which manifested itself in these ways:
1. I washed up (!)
2. I stewed apples, then made muffins with the apple and some strawberries I had frozen earlier. As a side note, they’re delicious.
3. I made a giant vat of stock out of leftover celery tops, mushroom stems and various other things. Unlike other times, I didn’t leave it out to go bad, and instead put it in ziplock bags in the freezer, which were marked with the date.
4. I made soup for dinner from the stock. It was fantastic.
5. I totally forgot it was grand final day - almost a capital crime in Melbourne.
As I wandered around the kitchen I wondered what had come over me. I had free time, it was a beautiful day, but I had suddenly become a Nigella Lawson style freak - but without the nanny and housekeeper (oh if only I had the housekeeper …) And I have to say I actually enjoyed it. Knowing myself well though, it would be wrong to expect a repeat of this next week, as I’ll probably have nothing in the house to eat, and spend all day lying in the sun doing nothing. Hmm, I’m already looking foward to it.
Having referenced Nigella Lawson, here is a poem I wrote about her several years ago, when I realised I was horribly jealous of her achievements, and trying to pretend I didn’t like her.
I am not Nigella,
My boobs aren’t quite that big,
I’m not a British toffee and I don’t speak like a prig.
But do I wish I had her house, her money and her luck?
The answer’s pretty obvious.
Well do I?
Do I f**k!
As one of my friends pointed out later, her luck actually wasn’t all that great, but I say if you’re looking for truth in poetry, you’ve come to the wrong place!