A close shave with a dried fish
As I helped myself to the last pear in the fruit bowl late last night, a strange feeling came over me. A feeling of being watched.
I retraced my steps to the fruit bowl and looked inside. I had not been mistaken. Right at the bottom, a dusty, malevolent eye was looking back at me. The eye belonged to a dried fish.
This can only mean one thing.
My mother-in-law has come to stay.
Twice a year, my mother-in-law comes from Russia to stay with us, and twice a year, the flat is taken over by Much Missed Foodstuffs From Hubski's Childhood. These include, in no particular order: truncheon-sized sausages of various unnatural pink hues, bags of berries picked in the forest (frozen before the journey and lifted out, dripping, on arrival, to be placed in our freezer), dried mushrooms for soups, brightly wrapped chocolate sweets that leave a layer of grease on the roof of the mouth, and above all, several carrier bags full of dried fish. Occasionally one gets away, as was the case last night.
My only objection is the horrendous smell, which pervades the flat. Fortunately, hubski is obsessed with the dried fish in the same way that I am obsessed with M&Ms. While they are in the flat, he cannot rest. He has dried fish for dessert, for aperatif and for breakfast. 'Why don't you pace yourself? They'll be none left.' I say halfheartedly.
Halfheartedly, because I know that no fish equals no smell. But on the other hand, I know that the solid block of pork lard hidden at the back of the fridge (my mother-in-law knows I disapprove), for cutting into strips and eating with rye bread, will be next.
Chocolate digestives and golden syrup seem rather tame in comparison.
I retraced my steps to the fruit bowl and looked inside. I had not been mistaken. Right at the bottom, a dusty, malevolent eye was looking back at me. The eye belonged to a dried fish.
This can only mean one thing.
My mother-in-law has come to stay.
Twice a year, my mother-in-law comes from Russia to stay with us, and twice a year, the flat is taken over by Much Missed Foodstuffs From Hubski's Childhood. These include, in no particular order: truncheon-sized sausages of various unnatural pink hues, bags of berries picked in the forest (frozen before the journey and lifted out, dripping, on arrival, to be placed in our freezer), dried mushrooms for soups, brightly wrapped chocolate sweets that leave a layer of grease on the roof of the mouth, and above all, several carrier bags full of dried fish. Occasionally one gets away, as was the case last night.
My only objection is the horrendous smell, which pervades the flat. Fortunately, hubski is obsessed with the dried fish in the same way that I am obsessed with M&Ms. While they are in the flat, he cannot rest. He has dried fish for dessert, for aperatif and for breakfast. 'Why don't you pace yourself? They'll be none left.' I say halfheartedly.
Halfheartedly, because I know that no fish equals no smell. But on the other hand, I know that the solid block of pork lard hidden at the back of the fridge (my mother-in-law knows I disapprove), for cutting into strips and eating with rye bread, will be next.
Chocolate digestives and golden syrup seem rather tame in comparison.
posted by francesca tereshkova | 7:36 AM
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