I’m continuing with my family story, on my mother’s side, and I know this is going to be difficult. I intend to say something that my mother kept secret all her life for one thing, and she was a strong-minded person, so I’m not doing it lightly. But I think it will release her from something which she blamed herself for, but which was so trivial – and so unkind – that it will sadden you that it meant a lot to her.
That’s for another day. Tonight, we have had more lamb for dinner, This was a casserole of the tough bits, the neck and the shanks. I cooked them with onions and tomatoes until tender the other evening, and then took them off the bone, tiddled up the gravy a bit, and served them with gorgeous, newly dug turnips and curly kale, and, um, oven chips*. Well. I’d been busy, and didn’t have any more time. And chips are tasty. Especially when sprinkled with Maldon Sea Salt. My parents used to buy this from Fortnum and Mason in the ’60s, and I still have never tasted a better salt, nor seen a prettier. Little pyramids, they are. Sweet**.
*For non-British readers, of course I mean French fries, not potato chips, which are crisps. Oh, American English. It’s all right when it’s pavement = sidewalk, as there’s no room for misunderstanding. But the chips/fries/crisps hoo-hah, the pants/vest (which are, to us, underwear), shorts, suspenders kerfuffle, they could give rise to serious misunderstanding. If we were not all so sympathetic and intelligent.
**Sweet meaning adorable. They are, of course, salty.