Think of village and the word idiot comes to mind. Well, to me it does. Maybe I am he. Anyway, I was taking the doggie for a stroll through the local village (the one with the world's worst-stocked shop, open for two hours each morning, see the distant post if you can be arsed to find it) when my old (and I mean Old) mate and world's greatest smallholder Riccardo called me over from his yard where he was busy wringing the necks of a couple of capons (excellent self-basters by the way, having lost their tackle at an early age, thus going to fat) and invited me in for an aperitivo and who was I to say no at half past ten in the morning? His marginally less ancient wife plonked down two beakers (oooh yes!) on the table in their huge, workmanlike 1960s kitchen and slugged out two serious martini rossos, one for me and one for her. "But Riccardo" I ventured, "are you not...?" "Don't ask" he replied curtly so I didn't. No ice, no faggy slice of orange, no mixer, just a straight simple Red Martini, straight out of the bottle into what was almost certainly a dirty glass. Marvellous. They loaded me up with the kit in the photo, all home-made, the white wine being recommended for a roast. Lord knows what the grape is, I don't think even Riccardo knows as some of his vines are older than he is (89).
11 comments:
What an idylic lifestyle you present. A far cry from the drug supported rave culture we live in here.
Ah - this more like it, who could fail to be smiling on his return home armed with gifts, all the sweeter for being gratis and from th heart. Eggs truly have to be one of the wonders of the world, and so photogenic...
Oh for goodness' sake: get a grip everyone. We all know Ron works sixteen hours a day as a gang master in a local sweat shop churning out lookey-likey Armani air-fresheners. All this idyll stuff is just a front. We're all being brainwashed. He's just as pale and overworked as the rest of us.
(I'm not bitter, by the way.)
The Sudoku....third square down: it's a '3'.
Cheers A F-A, I was stuck there for a while. Now back to gazing at the contents of the 'fridge.
Well, guess what I've got for supper. Fresh asparagus shoots avec peeled broad beans, topped out with a poached egg and crumbly goats cheese and sea salt. Washed down with a nice cold flinty Chablis. Yum yum.
That was very pretentious of me wasn't it?
Memo to all: Lord Ashley of Slawston has had too much sun. Would the next shift please wheel him into the shade for a period of quiet reflection. Many thanks.
But what about Riccardo? I am seriously concerned about him and that Italy might have succumbed to the sort of wretched goody goody GPs we have (do they have such creatures?). The sort that recommends that an 89 year-old starts to take his diet seriously and cuts down on saturated fats, alcohol, etc, etc. "You won't make old bones you know" they say quite seriously to someone who's had a full and fantastic life. And whilst on that topic, you watch your butter intake Mr Ashley! - just because you dip asparagus into it doesn't make it healthy you know. Back to my free-range baked beans on toast.
Actually. I've just had another huge helping of asparagus down in Darkest Dorset, washed down with Laphroig.
Aspasragus with a peaty single malt. Lord Ashley breaks new ground!
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