LSS visited the aged FIL to try and get him to walk a few steps, with the hidden agenda of doing some washing at the same time. Whilst she was gone, I positioned the newly-assembled scaffolding underneath the hawthorn tree next to the outbuilding-which-will-eventually-be-the-garage with the aim of trimming a couple of the upper branches, because they were growing into the garage roof.
Ooh, I don’t like working at heights with a chainsaw. Still, I took my time and am pleased to report that the garage roof is now branch-less.
In the afternoon we went into a shop called “But” in Romorantin. We had received some advertising pamphlets in our postbox, and had noticed that they had a special price on a gas oven. Now the one currently in the kitchen is falling apart with rust and only has two gas burners. The other two burners on the hob are electric, as is the oven. Now my Mum had a gas hob-and-oven when I was growing up in South-West-Africa, and in my opinion it’s a much more cost-effective method of cooking than using electricity.
Visiting this shop restored our faith in shopping; as the experience was exactly what we wanted. We went in, and saw the oven. A sales assistant came over. “May I be of assistance?”
“Yes please, we’d like this oven. Do you have any in stock?”
“Yes we do. Will you be taking it with you today?”
“Yes we will. And we need one of these connector pipe thingies to connect it to a gas bottle.”
“Certainly, I’ll just print your invoice, you pay at the cashier, and your order will be waiting for you at the counter marked ‘Despatch’ outside.”
Marvellous. Now at last we can finally use all those recipes which say “heat oven to gas mark 5”!
On the way home we popped in to a garden centre, and ended up buying some fruit bushes and other plants. Blackcurrants, redcurrants, strawberries, raspberries and tomatoes. And sundry vegetable seeds.
Finally, even though it was a bit windy, we had a barbecue. Pork chops this time, and they weren’t tough!
After dinner, LSS lit the gas burner on the old cooker hob in order to heat some water in the kettle for the washing up. Several minutes later, an odd smell was starting to permeate throughout the kitchen.
“Can you smell burning plastic?” I asked.
“Yes, now that you mention it,” LSS replied.
Noses twitching like bloodhounds, we finally found the source. The dirty dishes and cutlery had been placed next to the gas hob, with the plastic handle of one of the knives overhanging the heat source. Oops.
This week, LSS spent considerable time during the weekly shopping trip selecting things for the aged FIL that she thought he’d like to eat, having previously asked him if he fancied anything special. “No,” he replied. “I’m not fussy.”
Unfortunately, this turned out to be more or less a waste of time.
Some bananas. “Non. Take those away, I won’t eat them.”
A minute steak. “Non, I won’t eat it. Take it away.”
A croque monsieur (toasted ham sandwich). He ate half of it, then decided it was too hot and didn’t want to eat the rest.
Ham? Too salty. Take it away.
Rillette (a sort of minced pork paste) – he used to like this. Not any more.
A pack of ‘Vache qui rit’ (Laughing Cow) cheese slices. He used to like these. Not any more.
Even when it comes to bread – he used to eat 8 loaves a week, now he only manages half a loaf. This is unheard of for a Frenchman.
A packet of grated carrots, perhaps? – ah, finally, success. He ate that.
Other than that, he’s not fussy. Still, we’re not complaining. Our ‘fridge is full.
One lot of foodstuff LSS discovered in the aged FIL’s larder was pots of jam. We presumed they had been purchased by the late MIL many years ago because the price labels were still in French Francs. We took these back to our house because the aged FIL isn’t supposed to eat jam (and this is another of those things he’s said he doesn’t want to eat).
So, breakfast time arrives, some bread is toasted, and we examine the first jar.
Label: Plum jam. It didn’t taste too bad for a 15-year-old jam, I suppose.
Several breakfasts later the pot was empty.
Next pot: Labelled Strawberry jam. Surprise! This was plum jam too. Oh well, we ate it.
Several breakfasts later, this pot was empty too. We then looked suspiciously at the third pot. However, this one was conspicuously labelled “La Confiture d’Amelie. Framboises.”
In other words, raspberry jam.
Oh no it isn’t. This one was plum jam too. We deduced that the late MIL had made a large batch of plum jam, and had run out of pots. Guess which jam we won’t be making for a while?