As promised, I’ll start right back in June, with the letter A; in which I tried to set the tone, the mood- and indeed, the bar- as high as I could with the very first date. See, we’d not long come back from a holiday in which we’d shared separate beds with separate kids; and though I’d packed wine and games and films and tools… Husband spent every night looking like this:
Yep. After months of snot and phlem and grot it was time to raise our game. And so I pulled out all the stops and employed the works – raising the stakes so that next week, he could raise them again!
So, without much further ado….
A was for… Al Fresco Night!
I know- ingenious, right?!
There was wine, candles and cheese fondue; a warm summer night and a fire pit too! Leisurely dining under the stars… with The Date Night Promise (oi oi!) still on the cards.
So, come on…
What went wrong?!
Husband had a meeting, actually , until 9 o clock. I agreed to it for this date night, thinking, it’ll keep him out while I cook and set up. Which it did… rather unfortunately… as the most expensive ingredients went into the pot. At which point I found myself alone and stirring… as she-who-NEVER-stirs-before-10 began to wake up!
The fondue bubbled.
The baby cried.
A pound of cheese, half a bottle of wine!
Tiny wasn’t settling.
The fondue wasn’t done.
Keep stirring, warned the instructions.
No good… the baby won.
Half a fondue hour I lost, upstairs, rocking Tiny to sleep. Meanwhile, in the pot below, stodge and fat began to “unmeet.”
In what I hope was not a marital metaphor, the mixture fully separated. All the oil and wine rose to the top… the cheese decidedly deflated! Ten consultations with Doctor Google later: baking powder and cornflour (?!) officially foiled. I was left to present a solid, claggy mess; sunk in yellow liquid, like a big, septic boil!
Now thankfully I’m married to a pyromaniac, whose eyes lit up when he saw the fire. In fact, his sheer enthusiasm for burning stuff made the outcome alot less dire! Skewering raw dippers and scooping cheese clumps, he waxed lyrical, while I lamented and whinged. I picked at portions of undercooked eggplant. He smiled at burnt mushrooms like a man unhinged.
Roughly 15 minutes later, however, we were decidedly beat. The cement mix solidified, the dippers went brown, the smoking chimnea had lost its heat. Determined, however, not to let the rest of the evening suffer the same fate; I announced my intention that Al Fresco was to be the entire theme of our date!
“Mate! You can’t be serious?!” Said he.
“Nah ah, no way!”
“Live a little!”
“It’s not even dark!”
“Yes… that’s an oversight by nature, I have to say…”
“We are completely surrounded by neighbours- there’s no way we wouldn’t be seen!”
“Well… I know They-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did it underneath their trampoline…”
“You’re off your head!”
“You are! You do know I’m the local priest?!”
“There’s priests done worse…”
“I’m going upstairs!”
A is for…. Admitting Defeat!