On Friday night we had R&P round for dinner, plus Mr R-E with the bad back and housemate S, who, it turns out, is not leaving just yet. She sent us an email to tell us so.
But R&P are leaving. They are moving to Devon. That's what people do, round here.
I wanted to make prawn cocktail. I love prawn cocktail. M is a food snob, and argued that it was too naff. Somehow out of the resulting argument came the idea of having an entirely 1970s themed dinner. I get my prawn cocktail, M doesn't have to suffer the shame.
And it was a fabulous compromise, in its way. We had lots of German white wine with cheese and pineapple on sticks, followed by a three course feast: the best prawn cocktail I've ever eaten (recipe here -- but I used cold water prawns, far better for the purpose and the planet); Quiche Lorraine and Roquefort tart with flower-cut grilled tomatoes, a bean salad and a green salad; and an unexpectedly delicious Black Forest Gateau (recipe here -- though there was no way I could cut it into three layers, so we made do with two).
We were going to have coffee and After Eights, but everyone was feeling a little like Mr Creosote and the mint wafer would have set off all kinds of trouble.
On the soundtrack -- lots of prog rock, plus a bit of Roxy Music, some early Pink Floyd, and -- briefly -- Crystal Gale.
Fantastic. It was a great night and for a while we forgot how much we will miss R&P. But how come people weren't obese in the 70s? We used twelve eggs, two packs of butter, two pints of double cream, and a pound of sugar. It's taken me all weekend to recover.
Also, nobody drank the sherry. But I find myself developing a taste for it.
joella
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