Every night, before I go to sleep, I write a diary page and a gratitude list. The latter helps me to practise being content with all the many blessings in my life, and helps head off the twin evils of restlessness and dissatisfaction. More often than not, my husband is on the list - and his kindness, tolerance and patience!
These were all put to the test on Christmas Day. Our son and daughter-in-law-to-be had come over for a jolly Christmas breakfast, and later we'd driven down to Hastings to visit my Mum and collect one of my brothers to stay over. Martin had left the majority of a beautifully-cooked (by his own fair hand!) turkey crown to cool in the oven. It would go in the fridge later ready for our Boxing Day friend-and-family lunch.
We got back home early evening, and while Martin parked the car, my brother and I went into the house. We were all hungry and all I could think about was getting the pizzas on. Martin took a good ten minutes to find a parking space, but when he walked into the kitchen he immediately spotted the oven was pre-heating, quickly whipped out its contents, now heating up nicely, and said, "Don't you think it's a good idea to remove the turkey before turning on the oven?"
Well, the old man let me off lightly - just this initial barb of exasperated sarcasm (and, later, a degree of good-natured ribbing). But I suspect the man's good nature may have been over-stretched if we hadn't stashed the carefully prepared 4 kg honey-glazed gammon in the fridge. We fought with our consciences before quickly coming to the conclusion that we could not feed a potentially lethal partially re-heated turkey to our loved ones the next day, and, being fortunate enough to have a local branch of a well-known supermarket nearby, were able to buy a replacement cold cooked chicken.
If you require further proof of his forgiving ways -
Some years back, when we had a very large vegetable patch in our former home, and our gardening bible was Geoff Hamilton's Successful Organic Gardening, Martin laboured long and conscientiously to raise a wide selection of good things for the family table. He had gone up to London one day for a television casting, and I thought I would be a good woman and clear the brassica patch for him. I cheerfully dug up the tattered remains of the Brussel-sprouts, cabbage etc, and then went on to the next row of plants. As I was hacking them into manageable pieces ready for the compost, I thought to myself, 'Well, I don't know, this stuff looks good enough to eat...", but nobly carried on with a determined will. Sgt Johnson, serving ranker in the gardening corps, nothing if not thorough.
Martin appeared late afternoon, home from the Smoke.
"Look," I said, beaming, "I've cleared the brassicas!"
"Oh, good," said Martin, looking round. "Erm, where's the purple sprouting broccoli?"
Yes, folks, I'd bashed the just-about-ready-for-the-table crop of this delicious vegetable to bits. That which my husband had grown from seed, thinned out, transplanted, de-slugged, tied up, and weeded over a period of months ... and he didn't even shout at me!
These were all put to the test on Christmas Day. Our son and daughter-in-law-to-be had come over for a jolly Christmas breakfast, and later we'd driven down to Hastings to visit my Mum and collect one of my brothers to stay over. Martin had left the majority of a beautifully-cooked (by his own fair hand!) turkey crown to cool in the oven. It would go in the fridge later ready for our Boxing Day friend-and-family lunch.
We got back home early evening, and while Martin parked the car, my brother and I went into the house. We were all hungry and all I could think about was getting the pizzas on. Martin took a good ten minutes to find a parking space, but when he walked into the kitchen he immediately spotted the oven was pre-heating, quickly whipped out its contents, now heating up nicely, and said, "Don't you think it's a good idea to remove the turkey before turning on the oven?"
Well, the old man let me off lightly - just this initial barb of exasperated sarcasm (and, later, a degree of good-natured ribbing). But I suspect the man's good nature may have been over-stretched if we hadn't stashed the carefully prepared 4 kg honey-glazed gammon in the fridge. We fought with our consciences before quickly coming to the conclusion that we could not feed a potentially lethal partially re-heated turkey to our loved ones the next day, and, being fortunate enough to have a local branch of a well-known supermarket nearby, were able to buy a replacement cold cooked chicken.
If you require further proof of his forgiving ways -
Some years back, when we had a very large vegetable patch in our former home, and our gardening bible was Geoff Hamilton's Successful Organic Gardening, Martin laboured long and conscientiously to raise a wide selection of good things for the family table. He had gone up to London one day for a television casting, and I thought I would be a good woman and clear the brassica patch for him. I cheerfully dug up the tattered remains of the Brussel-sprouts, cabbage etc, and then went on to the next row of plants. As I was hacking them into manageable pieces ready for the compost, I thought to myself, 'Well, I don't know, this stuff looks good enough to eat...", but nobly carried on with a determined will. Sgt Johnson, serving ranker in the gardening corps, nothing if not thorough.
Martin appeared late afternoon, home from the Smoke.
"Look," I said, beaming, "I've cleared the brassicas!"
"Oh, good," said Martin, looking round. "Erm, where's the purple sprouting broccoli?"
Yes, folks, I'd bashed the just-about-ready-for-the-table crop of this delicious vegetable to bits. That which my husband had grown from seed, thinned out, transplanted, de-slugged, tied up, and weeded over a period of months ... and he didn't even shout at me!
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