Memories of Home, Part I

This memory has to be about thick white bread slices cut by myself, slathered in butter then reverently covered with pieces of cold roast lamb arranged for maximum coverage, finished off with a sprinkling of salt ...

For this 21st horror I am torn when placing blame ... my father who loved to eat cold roast meat in this way, or Nana ... who would heat up the kettle on her old coal burning stove and make a strong tea - milk and 2 sugars - to wash down that sandwich.

Still with me? asks a laughing wandering woman, imagining cholestral levels rising and tastebuds protesting just from the reading of this post.

Dinner last night ... I promised to tell.
The roast lamb, was slightly superb and I was victorious over the demon gas oven, this time.

Having travelled far from Nana's hot cup of tea, I chose to invite an old neighbour to partake in our evening meal last night ... a little Jacob's Creek Merlot had called out a greeting to me in the supermarket.

And who am I to ignore old friends, especially when the price is within what I have on my person at that point in time.

It was a good dinner.
And I have managed to answer the doubters of Di's culinary skills once again.