Looking back, I can pinpoint my fatal blunder. It was lunch. It was like the West allowing Vladimir Putin to help himself to the Crimean peninsula without a peep, basically. This is how it happened.
My husband had invited two families to stay over the May bank holiday which bled into half term. For four days. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, in light tones, ahead of their arrival. ‘I’ve told them they’re bringing all the food and doing all the cooking.’ As if I’d welcome this wonderful idea, when in fact what he’d suggested was the domestic equivalent of handing over the nuclear football and the codes behind my back.
The guests are delightful and I couldn’t wait to have them all (five adults and five children), but guests handling the catering was never going to happen under my roof, as my husband ought to have known.
One, I am a fast and capable cook. I came second to Ed Balls in the final of the BBC’s Celebrity Best Home Cook series (and maintain that he won because he made a pirate cake with full sails out of chocolate and he blubbed). Two, if an Englishman’s home is his castle, the female equivalent of the White House Situation Room is a woman’s kitchen.
The last thing I needed, in other words, was several other bossy middle-class parents occupying my catering HQ on Exmoor. Plus, I’d already ordered a van-busting home delivery from Sainsbury’s. On the Art of War principle that ‘supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemies’ resistance without fighting’, I replied: ‘Oh no, don’t worry! But maybe they can do lunches?’
Category error on my part.
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