Dinner Party in the village, aftermath

In England, a play house is called a Wendy house. And that could describe the darling home where we had dinner last night. Baskets hang from the peaked kitchen ceiling in the kitchen/dining room giving it the feeling of a farm kitchen. The pictures on the walls of the living room are personal, well-selected and displayed art works and photos. Jack, Wendy’s partner, has just returned from a hiking trip in Nepal, and looks fit and well. Ken is his usual dapper self in a coat, tie, and well-tailored slacks, and Rosie, who is a thin and upright vegetarian, very pretty in peach toned paisley.

Wendy serves trout amandine, roasted peppers, and scalloped potatoes, nicely presented and tasty, and the conversations tick along. Jack was a military officer, graduate of Sandhurst, posted in northern Germany during the Cold War, and he loved it, although he says the Americans got the best part of German, the southern bit, as usual. He has been to the states, or any way Texas, and expresses some irritation that Americans comment on his “accent”, whereas England is where English came from. I do not point out that English pronunciation and usage has diverged greatly, even in England, from the English spoken in the 17th century. Next time, I will.

Rosie is off to Australia for a month, and Ken is planning their spring trip, he thinks to Lake Garda in Italy. We chat about art in general, and Florentine art in particular; Ken finds the Ufizzi massively boring with its row after row of allegorical paintings, as I do.

We toddle home in 33F weather, using up, I hope, all the calories I ate for dinner.