pudding

We have a new diet. It’s called the Pudding Diet. It involves me being allowed to buy all those things with NO ENTRY signs written across them like the ‘crème de chataîgnes’ - a delectable brown goo made from local chestnuts and sold in the veg market, twirls of which in yoghurt are the ultimate midnight fridge raid.

The idea for the diet came as we were laying pooped and pissed on the sofa after steak, trompettes de mort mushrooms and salsify chips washed down with a very decent red and white from our trip to Chianti. It was our first proper meal in weeks.

“At this point” Julian giggled “The svelt Coralie would have a ‘petit pot’ of yoghurt.”
“She would also probably have stopped drinking with the last salsify chip.” I replied, slurring 'salsify' and hiccuping on 'chip'.

And so the pudding diet was born as a way to force us to stop drinking when we stopped eating. We calculated, roughly, that there would be the same amount of calories in the three extra glasses of wine that we would probably consume over the next couple of hours as there would be in a modest dessert.

We have yet to explore the meaning of modest when it comes to dessert, but last night we shared one bottle of wine - a triumph of restraint.

Whilst I am on the subject of puddings, our kitchen has made the leap from pile of rubble to potential bio-chic thanks to the organic ingredients of hemp, lime and pumice. Whether it’s mixing in a vat, throwing the ‘gobeti’ on the walls, filling or plastering, the whole exercise – unlike working with plaster or concrete - is like glorified cake making. The only difference is you don’t want to lick your fingers afterwards. Well, you do, but it is not advisable. Better to wash them and head for the chestnut cream.

When the delivery man for the underfloor heating phoned today, he asked for 'Madame Marrow-Shit'. Clearly the word is out that we are doing an organic renovation with a member of the marijuana plant family.