I have just returned from visiting my children and grand children in the UK. I missed some of the food over there and I took advantage of having kippers for breakfast (only once,) a splendid carvery at a bargain price in Totnes, and a liver and bacon casserole in The Old Inn, Widdicombe, Dartmoor. For my last night I plumped for a whole plaice (bones et al) which while very tasty tested my dexterity at maneuvering around the umpteen bones.
I didn’t realize that my stomach would react so ferociously to British culinary delights which I happily grew up with. Possibly it’s the march of time that’s taken its toll on my digestive system because it is 18 years since I emigrated to the USA. I was looking forward to making a Madras curry when I arrived home which may sound like a misnomer, but I’ve been eating curries from the age of 21. Swansea is regarded as the curry capital of the world, and there must be at least 60 Indian restaurants in the Swansea area. It may have something to do with the water or the Welsh and Indian accents being very similar.
We hadn’t been home but for a few days when we were on our way to the bi-monthly wine club dinner. We enjoyed a baker’s dozen (13) in the club until one couple decided they could not cope with the various international cuisines that members were inspired to make. Their unique contribution to the menu was a spam casserole which consisted of two ingredients: spam and ketchup. The writing was on the wall when a few members complained of feeling very nauseas the next day.
We were back on an even keel, and the forthcoming dinner was of the Thai variety which I like very much. The wine club is confined to our neighborhood so the drive isn’t a long one. Unfortunately the driveway to our hosts’ house is very steep and winding. To those familiar with Swansea it was tantamount to driving to the top of Kilvey Hill. For our international travelers, it favored the famous” zig-zag” Lombard Street in San Francisco. Half way up the driveway one would encounter a formidable tree which would play an active role in later proceedings. Despite my pleadings my wife insisted we parked the car at the top of the drive near the front door. Heaven forbid we derive exercise climbing the steep gradient.
It is an eclectic group of people, but for some odd reason four of the eleven no longer drink wine. It was a mildly enjoyable evening and light hearted conversation filled the air. The food and wine were very palatable and members had made an effort with their pairings. What on earth do you pair with spam casserole you may well ask, rot gut?
Our evenings don’t go gently into the darkest night. They are usually over by 9.30pm when members begin to drift away. I don’t drive very well in the dark, but my wife didn’t relish reversing her car down the driveway and suggested one of the hostesses undertake the task for us.
At this point my male ego went into overdrive and I practically screamed out: “I’m a professional driver (which I am since I work part-time as a driver,) and I’m taking this baby down.” All well and good when you haven’t imbibed in copious amounts of wine particularly when you are making up a shortfall of 4 members.
I gave the impending obstacle a once over and discerned there were two bends to negotiate one of which was adjacent to the formidable tree. Very slowly and carefully I backed down the driveway cognizant of the formidable tree. It seemed like an eternity, but I miraculously reversed around the bends and mercifully avoided the tree. I was home and dry save for a harmless little curve egressing onto the highway which I failed to notice.
I triumphantly backed straight onto what I deduced as the highway and suddenly heard a sickening crunch. I immediately braked and pulled forward with the attention of heading for home and sanctuary. Then I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed the hostesses’ mail box lying prostrate on the ground. (For non-Americans most houses have a free standing mail box situated on the road frontage. It comprises a wooden post approximately 4-5 feet high and a metal mail box sits on top of it.) I thought no problem; lean it back up and away to go. Unfortunately the post had snapped in two (hence the crunch,) and the box was badly dented.
I tried pushing the top half of the post into the ground, but it stood only 3 feet tall; good enough perhaps for a hobbit but unacceptable for the US Mail Service. Following a series of groveling apologies, we gave the bemused hostesses a cheque for $60 to pay for a suitable replacement, and my assurance not to interfere with reconstruction. My wife’s car, which is a sturdy Crown Victoria, was unscathed with barely a scratch.
Moral of the story……take a taxi. It’s cheaper!!!!
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