Eine Habe My Diary

This morning my mother, the writer, informed us that as part of her new series of projects she will be cooking meals throughout the day for research purposes. Obviously this was music to my ears, akin to a rousing yet soothing musical. I was beginning to think she had turned her back one of her primary roles. I have yet to see these new projects having being very busy with my university work preparing the last assignments, but I am eager nonetheless.

I am also happy to report that my father, the educator, has now achieved senior status in his department at Jason Mega College which, I would assume, entitles him to free parking though I do have trouble comprehending why he still leaves the house wearing his high-viz as it is no longer dark of the evenings. I will go far as to assume this is just out of habit, out of protest or even as a reminder of the level to which he had to previously endure - like a badge of honour.

My working day started with me having a minor confrontation with an incompetent (that means unable to do his/her job) IT technician at the university. This was over their ridiculous printing system. He was flapping when I decided to hit reset on one of their inferior print servers. As a fellow power-user (rather than some Word Processing tart) I wanted to remain on even terms with him (as us technical people should support each other) though I know 'Watto' and Knowsit and (sometimes Thom) repeatedly poke fun at him also pigeon-holing him as slow.

I arrived home late afternoon (as per mothers instructions) very excited about what I might be putting into my body. I entered the house and was immediately drawn to the kitchen by my superior sense of smell. Whilst walking through the dining area it was clear that my mother, the writer, had been entertaining friends during the day since there were several empty wine bottles scattered about the place no doubt to celebrate the fact she had rekindled her love for cooking me food. She was clearly moved, happy, singing and whistling.

After having a visual preview of the upcoming meal she asked that afterwards if I could provide feedback or comments about the meal; no doubt in an extended effort to improve herself.

I asked my mother. the writer, what name this dish went by. Her answer will impress.... She replied there was no name; which is obvious because my mother, the writer, had just invented it! (but had yet to choose a suitable name).

When laid before me I knew already I was in for enjoyment from the grin on her face as she returned to the kitchen. The meal consisted of Roast saddle and slowly braised shoulder of spring lamb with fried new potatoes, Norfolk asparagus and young carrots. The choice of plate was inviting underpinning her presentation of the dish.

The meat was moist yet not too hot. Just pleasantly warm. I felt it calling me to impale it with my primary eating instrument; the fork.

The potatoes were divine and their tone made it appear as were gently pulsating. They felt more raunchy to be eating since they were fried which I rarely do in order to maintain my physique.

The lamb was of equal enjoyment. I had pressed upon the meat and juices gushed from inside leaking towards the asparagus which was licked hard before I undertook its consumption and at intervals I used the young carrots to tantalise. I fingered through to find a particularly large specimen but I must admit I bit down on each of these virginal sticks with intent.

This meal was an absolute delight to consume. It had an erotic personality leaving me drained yet feeling very satisfied afterwards. It was evidence confirming that my mother, the writer, had returned to form.

After this experience I wrote a report describing in great detail how it made me feel with critique on her style and presentation. I was ready for another (since I can eat huge amounts with little threat to my physique) and quizzed my mother, the writer, about what meal she may prepare for my father, the educator. Based on feedback from others, there were several dishes to choose from and as the first was so exquisite I was happy and confident with any random selection she made as she did earn this opportunity to choose.

I retired to my room and was reviewing some facts about my home country of Germany (moving swiftly onto Wales) until the second dish was ready. It was a welcome change of mode - looking forward to my mother's, the writer's cooking - as opposed to having to brace myself for whatever torrid invention of a meal she otherwise would have thrown together (the incident involving buns comes to mind) whilst working on my dissertation.

Everything about this second meal appeared of equal standards to the first and I began to quiver in awe.

Unfortunately looks were deceiving. The second dish was sub par (largely due to an overuse of cooking sherry) which had serious repercussions. I felt very ill afterwards and almost pebble dashed a section of the bathroom with vomit. I wanted to confront my mother about the ingredients in this ‘recipe’. There are few items that would cause such an effect such as nuts, but she had fallen asleep on the kitchen floor moments after serving - no doubt through exhaustion.

Though my father, the educator, suffered no ill effects I will not be providing feedback for this experience.

Episode 18

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