Roaming Charges

Pork lard: Had to ask the butcher for this. We used to have it all the time when I was a kid; dripping sandwiches with doughy bread gone grey from your mucky hands; power cuts and space hoppers. Getting old now. Paddy hates lard, which is probably why I chose it when butter or oil would have done. Have some of that!

Lots of yellow onions: Presumably they mean ordinary onions as opposed to red ones. Must be chopped, which is always a bore, although when you get older they stop making your eyes water. I wonder why that is. Is it just another version of bullshit you quietly put away because your eyes have watered before, and you’ve heard it all before? Truthfully, you just eventually become insensitive to all the things you once made a bloody great song-and-dance of.

Quality Genuine Imported Sweet Paprika: Of course, I could have asked Paddy to get me some from Hungary, but as he actually hasn’t been to Hungary that might be a stretch. I found some in a Polish shop, which strings sausages in the window the way we used to string rabbits. Not the done thing now, eating rabbit. There will probably come a time when it becomes acceptable again, out of necessity if nothing else. Run, rabbit, run. They say you should add much more paprika than the US or British recipes ask for, and I don’t need to be asked twice to go over the top.

Stewing beef: The butcher is very good looking, in a manly, blood-streaked way. I have never seen a gaunt butcher. I suppose you have to go to a health-food shop to witness real deprivation. The butcher told me it was the finest beef he had, and chopped it so efficiently into one-inch cubes that I felt rather special afterwards. Paddy told me that he was worried about roaming charges in Hungary, and would I mind just using WhatsApp if I wanted to contact him? But don’t call, he said, with the cautionary tone of a finance manager. I don’t trust the phones calls. You hear horror stories, he said.

2 Red Bell Peppers: I had to look that up. Turns out they’re just red peppers. Hollowed out, de-membraned, chopped into one inch slithers. Hmm. Yesterday he sent me some photographs. The Hungarian Parliament Building on the banks of the Danube, a huge building. Really very big and probably mostly empty. I wonder how far away he had to go to get the whole thing in? Certainly to the other bank. Or did he just send me a Google Image by some convoluted deception? Similarly, he sent me a photograph of a bowl of goulash. No context. It looks very similar to the photo I have up on my laptop. Oh, and a bottle of Bull’s Blood wine, which he tells me gave him a sour hangover the following morning, during his meeting with the Magyars. Which apparently is all going swimmingly. They have to use a German interpreter because they don’t speak English and nobody speaks Hungarian, except themselves of course. He told me they were taking him open-air swimming at one of the volcanic lakes today. I warned him to use the rubber rings provided, and he text-laughed, and I told him that he shouldn’t come crying to me if he got sucked into the vortex. He didn’t know what I was talking about, but I did. I’ve been to Hungary and I’ve heard the stories. Still, that’s not really going to happen to Paddy because he isn’t actually in Budapest at all. It’s a slow-burning comedy, really. A bit like paprika.

5 Cloves of Garlic, minced: I don’t even know what that means. Is there a mincing variety? I went next door to Valerie’s and she lent me a little contraption which does the trick. Who knew? I asked Paddy who was with him on the business trip and he rattled off a few names I was familiar with. And then he mentioned a woman’s name, which he stumbled over as though she wasn’t important enough to recall. Someone new in the finance office. He told me that she was quite pretty and very clever, but she was a lesbian, which was almost clever on his part. I mean, what a relief, eh? Not that Paddy’s much of a catch, but he is head of finance and that apparently carries a certain sexual charisma. At least it does in the office.

Tomatoes, Carrots, Potatoes: Valerie had the tennis on when I went over there. Not really my thing. Despite my Irish husband, I am a very English person, which is why I don’t watch much tennis. But she told me there's a lad called Jack someone-or-other who had won his first three games and was definitely in contention. She said if I wanted to watch it, I could just catch up on BBCiPlayer. She gave me a bit of a look when she said that. I told her I knew perfectly well how to use my own television, thank you very much. And thank you for the garlic mincer. I didn’t tell her I’d already seen it.

Beef Broth, lots of: The butcher’s wife makes her own from all the bones and gristle. It constantly amazes me how useful people are in their own individual ways. She asked me how Paddy was and I said he’s in Budapest. She gave me one of those little, inscrutable frowns before she quickly wiped it away, like an Etch-a-Sketch.

Bayleaf, Pepper, Salt, Caraway Seeds: You can’t take it out, but you can always add. Isn’t that what they say about seasoning? Slowly, slowly until it’s all just bloody perfect. All these years, Paddy, and you know what? You still taste like shit.

*****

Simmer, rest, simmer, boil, thicken, taste. I had a Paddy-ping on my phone. He told me that he was sick of goulash, Ha! I have to say, the goulash in my kitchen smells divine. Just as good as any I tasted in Hungary. The Polish shop also stocked Hungarian wine, although it’s quite hard to come by because they haven’t quite shaken off their collective Communist past. They call it Bull’s Blood because it’s so red and viscous. I had a small bowl of the goulash and the bottle of wine. Took it to the living room, with a plate of buttery French bread.

I watched the tennis match again, Wimbledon, SW1. One thousand and seventy-six miles from Budapest. Paddy’s not really so bright. He must have thought I’ll take the pretty lesbian from accounts to watch the English guy get trounced. Except the English guy didn’t get trounced. And she wasn’t pretty or a lesbian either - but the cameramen seemed to like them. The lens has an unerring instinct. I got another Paddy-ping. Of course, he’ll know by now. I think my husband might have underestimated quite how many people would have been watching that match. But he knows I hate tennis and he’s relying on the discretion of others. And they have been discreet. Valerie with her pointed remark about watching Wimbledon, the butcher’s wife with her telling hesitation.

Home in the early hours, he writes, cheerily. Exhausted, love. Dying to get back to some British cooking. Sick of fucking goulash, that’s for sure!!! Xxx

This from a man who’s been eating strawberries and cream all day.

I won’t be here when he gets back. I’ve better things to do with my time than housekeep for an ageing roué. I have taken his credit card, the one he keeps unlocked in his study, a virgin pressing. The pin number was stuck to the inside of the standard lamp he keeps on his desk. Like I say, I housekeep. I’m only going to Valerie’s next door, but he doesn’t need to know that. Tonight, we’re going to book a long cruise on Paddy’s buck.

It seems he incurred those roaming charges after all.