Salt ‘n’ Pepper
Sophie White
In a lot of ways, Himself and I are wildly unsuited. We value different things in life. He is forever planning and filling out forms on time and being prepared for every eventuality. It’s very annoying, especially as he’s always trying to organise me. I keep trying to explain that this cannot be done, as I value spontaneity and laziness.
This fundamental incompatibility is never more evident than when we are away on holiday together. He can observe my chaotic ways, while I am bombarded at close range by his anal retentiveness. I should point out that, by real adult standards, we are both hopelessly dysfunctional, and I must be the only person in the world beside whom Himself gets to feel superior about his own organisation and general life skills.
This year, we arranged our summer holiday, and Himself went on a wild TripAdvisor bender, absorbing every last scrap of detail about our destination as if expecting a quiz with spot prizes. Upon arrival, my every idle conversational musing, from where the bakery was to what time the pool closes, was answered smugly and immediately by The Oracle. If I made a wrong turn in the labyrinthine campsite where we were staying, he would scoff mercilessly and ask if I was even aware of what country we were currently in. Insufferable.
On holidays, with so much time for petty arguments and bickering, even the difference in our perception of heat becomes a point of tension. For me, it can never be hot enough. I am as pasty and corpse-like as they come, but I love nothing more than oppressive, almost debilitating heat. Himself, and now, by genetic inevitability, it seems, our son, Yer Man, do not do well in the heat.
They are sweaty — very, very sweaty — and require regular naps. They also come out very red and blotchy and rashy. It’s most unpleasant. I can barely stand to look at them, never mind stand near them and be counted among their number.
One thing we can agree on is food. The food is the most important aspect of any holiday. All the other supposedly fun activities are really just fillers between our elaborate meals.
We favour the self-catering thing, as we both tend to be anxious when confronted by a buffet: Is there enough? Can we do a return trip to the buffet and, if so, are three or more trips frowned upon? Safer to be in charge of our own culinary destiny, I say.
This salad is our favourite holiday dinner, and here I will admit that The Oracle’s obsessive memorising of the minutiae of TripAdvisor did come in handy. As I stood in the supermarket, debating the investment of an entire box of Maldon sea salt flakes — it was killing me to make the spend for just a week’s worth of seasoning — Himself sidled up and announced that, off the back of his TripAdvisor research, he had brought the box of Maldon and the pepper mill from home. Anal retentive? Yes. But maybe we’re more compatible than I think.