Sundays in Paradise

 I am slightly impressed with myself today because I cooked a French recipe. Online. And only needed to dash to the shops once for forgotten ingredients. Link to the video of the thing that I cooked

It was  some sort of healthy sweet. The recette start with whole very French looking carrots and a cast iron pot with water boiling artfully on the gas hob.

I was pretty smug at that point. I had done a decent run to the shops earlier, with the one or two things that I needed remembered, and the half-dozen things that would be good to get (whilst also bravely resisting the myriad of things that were chocolate and not really required on my hips or blood test results). 

I had carrots, although their roots were more Antipodean.

The writing across the screen was French and no doubt referred to how well the carrots were to be boiled.

As I was also making pesto, cleaning the kitchen, parenting (or at least imitating an adult legally in charge of someone who alternates between judging you on your proficiency, blatantly disregarding it and watching Mean Girls while rearranging furniture) a teenager and helping V interpret the pita options available to him - as I was also doing all of that I did let some time pass between the above and the below.

Thus the carrots did not have the evocative shroud of steam as the carrots were put into the perfectly-sized food-processor bowl - nor do I have the perfectly-sized food-processor bowl.

The carrots in my huge food-processor bowl seemed a little grainer than that of the French offering - yet I persevered.

The next text on the screen stopped my momentum.

I had failed to get orange juice. 

But that was okay because I could solve this problem. It makes for a nice change, given that I have recently received the award for worst Mum ever (my acceptance speech could have been polished but had some sparkly bits) and my magic touch does as much for healing those in pain as it has done for world peace.

Paradise is blessed with a little shopping centre, with two supermarkets - and as I had already done my earlier outing to the Colesworth, the German one got my patronage.

I had my little battle regards volume vs economy (volume won - a V8 bottle bought on the internal advice on the latter still recent enough to sway the jury) and had perused the specials before going to the counter with the green light.

The clientele was sparse but all well worth watching. A very generous lady ahead offered me speed (as in cutting in line rather than anything illicit- not THAT sort of paradise), but she nodded understandingly when I declined citing air-conditioning and teenagers.

The gentleman ahead had run short paying the ransom on his icecream. A couple moved in behind me. They were discussing the merits of iced coffee and how to pay for their waffles, drink and mountain of snacks. I had a feeling that other substances had been involved in their appetite (and possibly their economy) (so maybe that sort of paradise for some) but that was an extremely judgemental call given all that I had to go on was eavesdropping.

I paid for my little bottle of OJ and returned to my labours.

My sporadic attempts at studying French stood me in good stead.

Sugar.

Cornflour.

Darn.

I did not venture forth a second time.

They still tasted good.

Will be testing them on workmates tomorrow.