IT’S MY LIFE
I’M by nature an unseemly healthy individual, who rarely gets anything worse than a headache. However, In the past few days I’ve been decidedly under the weather. During this time, I’ve learned two things. One, is that as long as I put dinner on the table, no one cares. The other, is that it might be possible for a woman to get man-flu.
If I’m completely honest I’ll admit, while I’ve certainly not been 100%, I’m nowhere near dying. However, you’d never think that if you were to listen to me.
“Waahh, I’m so unwell,” I’ve been saying on a loop, in a moany voice, to anyone who will listen, including my reflection in the mirror.
I’ve even spent time lying on the couch, like someone from a Jane Austen novel, waiting for hot chicken soup and my fever to break.
However, the worst side effect of this man-flu has been my poor memory. I’m forgetting everything.
“I can’t wait for Friday,” said my youngest.
“Oh yes, that’ll be wonderful. Enjoy.”
“Do you even remember what’s happening Friday?” “Sorry, no,” I admitted. I’ve not been sleeping or I’m not well,
As you may know I’m no foodie, but the wonderful cook who is my mother, managed to teach me one thing — how to make a good pavlova
are some of the reassurances I’ve been offering myself as excuses, most especially when recently I met a lovely gentleman who greeted me like an old pal but as yet I’ve still no idea who he was.
Today my poor memory struck again.
I woke early with a long to-do list swirling about in my head and a time clock for most of the items on it ticking loudly. Not to worry, with an early start I’d be on top of it in no time and at least my man-flu had begun to leave my body.
Top of my to-do list was a pavlova I’d to make for a friend’s dinner party. She was catering for a large number of us that evening and I’d promised to provide a dessert. As you may know I’m no foodie, but the wonderful cook who is my mother, managed to teach me one thing — how to make a good pavlova. On more than one occasion this has caused my foodie friends to wonder have they misjudged my homemaking qualities? They have not. I really am a one-trick pony.
With an empty house for the first time in six months, I was seriously tempted to sit in silence and read, but the list and pavlova kept calling. So, I reached for the box of six eggs. It was right about the moment I opened them that a memory returned.
I’d eaten egg number six the previous day. Not to worry five large eggs would have to do.
With a decided shake in my hands, I began to separate the whites from the yolks, not an easy task before 8am, especially with the sound of my mother’s voice ringing in my ears: “If even the smallest piece of yolk goes into the whites it will be ruined.”
Minutes later I stared into the bowl of five egg whites, successfully separated. On the plus side, there didn’t seem to be any rogue yolk present, on the negative, yesterday’s lunch was definitely a mistake. I needed one more egg.
Dressing quickly, I drove to the local shop in a less than perfect mood. Twenty minutes later my masterpiece of a pavlova was in the oven. As I stood back to admire it and congratulate myself, I spotted the egg I’d gone shopping for, separated and sitting in a cup on the counter.
I needed a lie-down, my man-flu was returning with a bang.
Later I soldiered on to the party. But as my friends admired my pavlova I may have forgotten to tell them it was missing something.