Amuse bouche... Sexist talk

You know you’re being a bit sexist, right?” Isabel said to Sharon. “Like, do you reckon Fergal goes on to his mates about the dinners you’ve made for him?”

“I suppose not,” said Sharon, feeling slapped down.

She should probably stop talking about Fergal to her altogether, given Isabel’s own recent heartbreak. And given that Valentine’s was coming and all. And given that Isabel’s guy hadn’t been a cook at all.

God, Fergal was a great cook, Sharon found herself thinking again, after she offered up an isn’t-Ed-awful thread of chat and let Isabel run with it.

Last night, Fergal had turned up at Sharon’s after work with two bags of shopping from that posh and expensive food shop down the road.

Sharon had bought only milk in the supermarket on the way home. She had nothing in the fridge that would add up to a proper dinner, either.

Sharon would have been happy to see Fergal even if he’d been empty-handed, but arriving with dinner made it even better. And he could food-shop, too. Without a list.

Sharon only ever bought the ready meals in that fancy food shop. She wouldn’t know what to do with half the stuff they sold, but it turned out that Fergal knew exactly what to do with it.

Sharon had never had a boyfriend who cooked before. Like, she’d had boyfriends who could put a dinner up in front of her, but it was generally chilli or spag bol or shepherd’s pie.

Mince had been the constant through all the past boyfriends, she realised, and often a sachet of chilli/spag bol/shepherd’s pie seasoning.

One guy actually referred to the sachets as his ‘mammy’s little secret’, as if his mammy was the only one who saw them on the supermarket shelf. He went back down the country to live with mammy and her sachets, if memory served.

Past boyfriends were passable in the kitchen, Sharon had been telling Isabel before she shut her up, but the praise they required for their passable efforts kind of took the good out of it.

They’d make a point of mentioning that their fathers never cooked, as they deserved a medal for being so evolved.

You can feed yourself, bualadh bos, buachaill maith.

Last night, Fergal had made butternut squash, roasted with honey and harissa and served with yogurty tahini and pumpkin seeds.

There was some left, Sharon remembered. Fergal had put it in a tub in the fridge for her. It was like having a wife.

Maybe she was a bit sexist, Sharon thought. But Fergal wasn’t complaining, so what harm? Isabel was being a jealous cow. Was that sexist, too?