Soufflé

Many moons ago, so many that TallGirl was TallBump, Mr B self-interestedly bought me a week-long cookery course at a very fancy restaurant. On dessert day, we were given a lesson in why you should never order a soufflé in a fancy restaurant: they cost pennies to make, are very easy, and yet are surrounded with a mystique that makes people pay a fortune for them.

Somehow, I have not really retained the lesson that soufflés are robust, as I have shied away from them ever since. CarbBoy, as my early Sunday lunch helper (he didn’t stay the course) fancied chocolate soufflé for pudding. The mix was for 6, and the spares have sat in the fridge for two days. And are evidently still operational.

All of which culinary chat is cover for the dullness of my day: work dullness, office tidying dullness, sitting in a neighbouring town waiting for basket ballers dullness. However, I did find a postcard from my Mam from 1991 in French (!) and <drum roll> I have an appointment on Friday to talk to a man about a car.

This evening; chat with TallGirl about her first mock French exam (fine - but four hours long), the grades she realistically needs for what she wants to do, and how to get them, and later a (mostly) WhatsApp chat with Mr B about shopping he is doing for the kids in New York (with no TallGirl sized people around to try stuff against). Later still, a long chat with my Dad. Institute night (I forgot) so no Mam.